The Bold and the Beautiful
by WastelandRose
Summary: And then Sam full-on fainted, wondering how the hell he was ever going to live this down... A sequel to "The Young and the Restless."
1. Scrying

Part 1 - Scrying

After Dean went to hell, Sam lost most of his social connections to atrophy. There was no one from his life before, his life with his _brother_ that he had any desire to talk to unless absolutely necessary.

After Dean came back, everything was different. Not normal or even typical by Winchester standards (because that wasn't possible anymore there on the brink of apocalypse), but Sam found himself... vaguely content. And thinking about people again. People like Bobby and Ellen and Jo. Like Gus. He thought about Gus a lot, but mainly just because she wasn't answering her phone, because no one had seen or heard from her in ages.

Dean tried to be subtle about it, but after the thing with Anna, he steered them toward Georgia at the first available opportunity.

They'd been by Gus's house quite a few times in the nearly three years since that mess with the de-aging curse, at first checking up on the witch but then just making social calls. The woman had really cleaned up her act since they'd first met her, still dabbling in some lighter forms of protection and healing magic but overall keeping on the straight and narrow. Harnessing her inherent powers and putting them toward worthy causes. She'd actually gotten quite skilled, and she'd patched them up after more than one hunt gone awry. Dean often laughed that she'd turned into a good witch instead of a wicked one. The comment was usually accompanied by a lascivious wink across the dinner table or couch while they were hanging out and killing time. Both Winchesters considered Gus a friend.

Sam had long suspected that his brother was more than friends with the crotchety former beauty queen, and the only evidence he needed was the look on Dean's face when they arrived at her isolated home and found it not only deserted, but also ransacked. Utterly trashed. All her wards demolished by what had to have been a tremendous evil force. There was no indication of whether or not Gus was alive or dead. Though a few spots of months-old blood and a lot of sulfur seemed to suggest dead.

Dean didn't handle it well, drinking himself into a stupor even more often as the weeks progressed, calling _everyone _trying to get a lead. But still: nothing.

Augusta Elaine Vaughn had vanished without a trace.

If the expiration date on the spoiled milk in her otherwise bare refrigerated was to be believed, she'd been gone for many months, and Sam felt guilty that he hadn't noticed sooner. Worried about how his brother was reacting. And, after that case with their haunted high school and then almost killing each other over the siren, after Pamela's dying and Alistair's thrashing of Dean, after having their memories rewritten by some twisted angel, he felt like he owed it to the man, wanted to find Gus for him. To cheer him up, you know?...

To win him back.

And, ok, Sam _totally_ knew better than to mess with witchcraft. But Ruby had been giving him pointers. And her hex bags worked wonders. Besides, it wouldn't be the first time he used just a little for a good cause. What would be the harm, Sam thought, in casting a small spell to locate Gus? At least then they would know if there was even anything left to locate...

The scrying ritual, gleaned from an ancient book of Ruby's, was surprisingly easy to set up and didn't even require any gross ingredients. A few candles, a few cleansing herbs, a national map, and a crystal pendant later, Sam was in business.

Chanting alone in an Iowa motel room (Dean hadn't been able to get them out of Ohio fast enough), Sam dangled the translucent white crystal over the map and pictured Gus: curly blonde hair and wide blue eyes, a cranky scowl and a petite, too-thin thirty-something body.

Like a magnet, the map sucked the crystal down onto a random stretch of wilderness in Northern California.

And then, like a hammer to the forehead, Sam's vision exploded with white hot pain...

xxXxx

He awoke in pitch darkness, lying in a foot or two of lukewarm water. At least he hoped it was water; Sam had woken up in worse before.

When he stretched them out carefully, Sam's hands hit slick contours. Tile, maybe, or ceramic. A bathtub. He sloshed around for a few moments, trying to get his bearings, groping for something light-switch shaped. He managed to stand and immediately regretted the action; he felt nauseas and bloated, shaky, dizzy and disoriented. Strangely top-heavy.

But the Winchester soldiered on, managing his way out of the tub and almost immediately running into a closed door. He cursed quietly, nursing his jammed toes. Finally, he found the switch and clicked on the lights.

Blinking roughly against the harsh glare of the fluorescent bulbs, Sam peered around what was, indeed, a small, atrociously decorated bathroom. Seriously, that much lace was _never_ appropriate. And everything seemed so... big. Like someone had taken a normal-sized room and stretched it out.

Still trying to figure things out, he turned and found himself face-to-face with a rather startled-looking Gus... an entirely _naked _Gus.

Sam covered his eyes, blushing as he did a short mental victory dance and squeaked, "Sorry!"

No answer. And, come to think of it, his voice sounded strangely high...

He peeked out between his fingers, gingerly, and saw Gus doing the same... ok. Weird... Sam cleared his throat, asking, "So, where are we? Where've you been?"

Her lips moved in time with his, but Gus made no move to clothe herself, just standing stock still and copying his stance.

"Are you mocking me?" Sam wondered, very confused by the whole situation.

And then he saw it: the mirror over the sink. He wasn't looking at Gus; he was looking into a mirror. But that meant...

Fearing the worst, hoping that he was caught in a sick nightmare, Sam let his gaze slowly travel downward. He saw boobs, much bigger ones than he remembered Gus as having. The bulbous pregnant belly poking out underneath them explained that though.

Right on cue, something kicked him in the kidney. From inside.

And then Sam full-on _fainted_, wondering how the hell he was ever going to live this down.

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The sequel is upon you. Tremble in fearful ecstasy :)


	2. Screaming

Part 2 - Screaming

Sitting in his car outside their latest no-tell motel room, Dean took a moment to just be alone with his anger and guilt, his worry. Another morning of making phone calls and tracking leads about Gus had yielded a big steaming pile of nothing, and he was approaching the end of his rope.

How could she just disappear? Had she been hurt? Kidnapped? Killed? Where the fuck was she?!

How could he have let it happen?

Fuck, he was useless.

Dean sighed and tried to shake off the effects of yet another hangover. No use sulking. He'd get Sammy to run another check on the banking and credit card activity, hope for a miracle.

He marched into the motel room, finding it empty on first examination. "Sam?" he called, "You in the can?"

No answer. Dean shook his head and shed his jacket, flopping down on the bed and stretching out lazily, trying to relax. Trying not to think about his brother being out and about unsupervised, possibly (probably) going darkside at that very moment.

But then he turned his head and saw Sam passed out cold on the floor between the beds.

"Shit," Dean swore, immediately falling to his knees at his brother's side and checking for obvious injuries. Finding none, the oldest Winchester slapped the youngest lightly in an attempt to rouse him. "C'mon, Sammy," Dean ordered gruffly, "Up and at 'em! Open your damn eyes!"

The kid groaned, weakly, face screwing up and big hands clumsily trying to shove Dean away. "Fuck you," Sam grumbled, voice thick and hoarse.

"That how you greet all your rescuers?" Dean laughed, relieved but not entirely, not until he knew what the hell was going on.

Sam's whole giant body tensed in an instant, his breath sticking in his throat. The kid's eyes flew open and went silver-dollar huge.

And that's when he started screaming, shrieking hysterically and scrambling away like some demented crab. His big feet kept slipping on a map of the country, finally ripping it to shreds as he got upright and flattened himself against the wall.

He stared at Dean like... well, Dean had never seen his brother look so openly terrified: trembling and panting, horror-struck. Cornered.

Sam wrapped his arms protectively around his stomach, frowned down at his own bellybutton and, though it didn't actually seem possible, began screaming even louder, freaking out hundreds of times worse.

"Holy shit," Dean called, confused, holding his hands out defensively, "What the hell is going on? Calm down already!"

"Where's my baby?!" Sam shrieked, "What did you do with my baby, you fuckin fetus-stealer?!"

Of all the things Dean had expected his brother to say (ever), that was not one of them. "Uh..." the blonde gaped, searching futilely for a response. Seriously, how the fuck was he supposed to answer?

Sam used the momentary pause to bolt for the door, hurdling the bed with just one freakish leap and then promptly getting tangled in his own too-long legs and falling flat on his face. The kid curled up into a ball and burst into tears, wailing, "Just do it quick, you bastard!"

"Do_ what_?" Dean demanded, approaching carefully, "Dammnit, Sam, _relax_! You are _really_ freaking me out!"

Sam just kept wailing, sobbing convulsively. It was... disturbing. In many, _many_ ways.

Dean's cell rang, and he answered reflexively, still unable to take his eyes off the blubbering mess of little brother on the floor (still struggling to _comprehend_ the mess, let alone figure out how to handle it).

"_Dean?_"

Dean blinked. The day just kept getting weirder. "Gus?" he answered hesitantly, hopeful yet suddenly doubting his own sanity. Doubting whether or not he was even awake.

He heard the sound of a throat clearing on the other end of the line, then, again, Gus's high, thin voice: "_No... not exactly... it's actually Sam_."

Dean continued to stare down at his crying little brother and blankly answered, "Uh... no, I don't think so."

"_Dean_," Gus whined in a very Sam-like fashion, "_Just listen, ok? I... I messed up. I was trying to find Gus-_"

"You are Gus," Dean insisted.

"_I'm not!_" Gus insisted right back, "_I'm Sam! I screwed up a scrying spell, and now I'm in Gus's body!_"

"Oh," Dean said. He thought, for a moment, and then questioned, "Seriously?"

With an exasperated, again very Sam-like sigh of impatience, the voice on the other end of the line snapped, "_Yes, seriously!_"

"Oh," Dean said again. He thought for a few more moments and then questioned, "So... she's probably in your body, huh?"

"_I would assume_."

Watching as Sam- well, Gus, apparently, continued on with his... er, her (pronouns were going to be a problem) breakdown, Dean ventured, "Any reason she'd be screaming about me stealing her baby?"

"_Um_," Sam murmured, "_Ya, dude. She's... she's pretty pregnant. Like, _huge_._"

"Oh."

It was all very strange and surreal. Even by Winchester standards. And, to make sure he that was properly understanding it, Dean felt the need to sum up the situation: "So, you're trapped inside the body of a pregnant chick?"

Sam cleared his throat (Gus's throat, whatever), and meekly, guiltily answered, "_Ya_."

"Oh," Dean said... and then he started laughing, like he hadn't in what felt like years.

By the time he stopped, Gus had slipped away in her borrowed skin.

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Reviews are love :)


	3. Searching

Part 3 - Searching

Sam preferred to believe that his gathering headache had nothing to do with being suddenly pregnant and _everything_ to do with hearing that Gus had run off in his body. "Dean," he complained, pointedly ignoring the chorus line performing high kicks in his borrowed gut, "You have to find her."

"_No shit, princess_," his brother chuckled in reply, obviously still highly amused by the predicament, "_Gus is kinda the victim this time. She's probably freaking out._"

"I said I was sorry," Sam sighed. He kneaded Gus's temple with her free hand, grimacing down at her bulbous belly.

Sam heard the Impala's blinker and then his brother's voice, tight with barely checked annoyance, "_Sorry ain't gonna cut it, sweetheart. You're a friggin bodysnatcher. And don't think I don't know where you got the damn spell. Ruby is toast if I catch her skanky ass_."

"Ruby had nothing to do with this," Sam argued, squirming uncomfortably in elastic-waist maternity jeans and a grossly oversized Mickey Mouse t-shirt. There didn't seem to be any coming back from a wardrobe like that. "It was just a simple scrying spell! I don't know what happened!"

"_The same damn thing that always happens when some dumbass Sabrina wannabe starts screwing around with witchcraft_," his brother growled. There was tense silence on the line and then, "_I think I spotted her. I'll call you back_."

Sam hung up with a huff, alone once more with the absurdity of the situation. He hoisted himself up off the bed and took another waddling lap around the small one-story house in which he'd found himself, inspecting Gus's dresser and closet, her tiny TV, her surprisingly well-stocked refrigerator, her purse and cash and fake IDs, the stacks of baby books scattered throughout.

She had set up a new life for herself, it seemed. But _why_?

Even though it still creeped him out (a lot), he stood in front of the full-length mirror in the bedroom and took stock of his new appearance.

Gus looked mostly the same, aside from the belly. And some extra weight, which was actually a good thing considering how painfully thin she was normally. Her cheeks seemed less hollow, her skin more pale, as though it hadn't seen proper sunlight in months. Her hair had been hastily towel dried and hung around the woman's pretty face in a halo of frizzy gold curls, barely skimming her skinny shoulders. The faint frown lines around her mouth and eyes and across her high forehead had deepened a bit, betraying that their owner had probably been acting as cranky as always. Or maybe she just had more reason to fret and worry and be angry with the world.

Sam turned sideways, wincing when he saw, again, just how big and round Gus's stomach had gotten, how much it stuck out from her lithe frame. He rested his hands on the stomach and immediately felt the creature inside wriggle and kick.

He wondered about the baby, when it was due, if it was a boy or a girl, who the father was. He wondered why Gus hadn't told him or asked for his help.

Then he felt even guiltier, thinking that maybe she'd tried. He hadn't exactly been in his right mind during those four months of life as the last remaining Winchester, and he certainly hadn't been a very good friend.

He sighed, figuring he could beat himself up later. Right that second, he _really_ had to pee.

xxXxx

"That's him, officer!" the tall kid shouted hysterically, cowering and crowding against the policeman's back, pointing an accusing finger down the road as the handcuffs dangled from his wrist, "That's _him_! That's the demon that stole my baby! I told you he was real!"

Officer Hastings gave an exasperated eye roll, muttering about how he always seemed to attract the biggest weirdoes right at the end of his shifts. He'd stopped this monster of a man sprinting barefoot down the middle of the highway, blubbering and shrieking nonsense. Hastings had been trying to wrestle the giant into the back of his squad car for the last ten minutes with absolutely no success; every time he thought he had the guy pinned, the kid would slip away like some kind of eel, screaming and sobbing about his baby.

"Hi," the approaching stranger greeted, giving a sheepish yet unbearably cocky grin as he fidgeted in a old leather coat, "Whatever my brother did, I'm very, very sorry. He went off his meds about a week ago. I was actually taking him to his shrink's office. He kinda bolted when I stopped for gas."

"That's a _lie_!" the freakishly tall kid bellowed, suddenly _hugging_ Hastings to his huge gangly body, using the squawking officer as a shield, "We were lovers, and he knocked me up and then died and went to hell for all eternity! He's _obviously _a demon now, and he's escaped back to earth! He's here to kill me! Just like he killed my baby!" The kid was dripping snot and tears onto Hastings's shoulder, choking him, wailing, "It was yours, you stupid bastard! How could you do that to your own child?! _CHRISTO_!! _CHRISTO_, MOTHERFUCKER!!"

The cocky blonde man's hazel eyes went wide and his face went stark white, his mouth gaping open quite stupidly.

But Officer Hastings didn't really give a damn about any of that; he just wanted to leave the crazy brothers to their psycho drama and get home to his wife. "Get this lunatic outta my sight!" he bellowed, trying and failing to fight the huge brother off him while addressing the cocky one, "Now! I don't wanna see either one of you around here ever again! You better be specks on the horizon in two goddamn minutes or else I'm runnin you both in!"

Cocky visibly shook himself, clearing his throat but not doing a particularly good job of clearing an apparent lump. "Gus," he murmured, sounding strangled and shell-shocked, "Gus, dude. I'm not a demon. And you can come with me now and let me prove it, or I'm pretty sure the cop's gonna haul you off to the loony bin. 'Member _Cuckoo's Nest_? You hate that movie. You wanna live it?"

The tall guy, Gus, stared blankly and loosened his grip enough for Hastings to break out of it. Scowling, Hastings stomped back to his cruiser. Screw protocol. He was just too old for this shit.

xxXxx

The squad car sped away and left Dean and Gus staring anxiously at one another. Well, Gus was staring anxiously, her hijacked meat suit all tense and edgy, ready for a fight, a set of handcuffs still dangling from one of Sam's wrists; Dean was just... fuck, he was _floored_.

"_Christo_," Gus challenged nastily. He could hear her slight, almost musical accent now; it sounded strange coming from Sam's mouth.

"Try again, dude," Dean replied, nodding over his shoulder, "Go ahead and grab some holy water outta the Impala. Bless it yourself, if you want. There's rosaries in the glove box."

Gus narrowed Sam's eyes and pursed Sam's lips, clumsily circling around Dean even though it took her into the deserted highway a ways. Once she reached the Impala, she threw herself inside it and frantically locked the doors.

The keys were in Dean's pocket, but he let her have the sanctuary if it calmed her down.

Still not taking her eyes off him, Gus dug around for holy water. She found some quickly and sat up, presumably to use it.

That was about the time she caught sight of herself in the rearview, shrieked, and passed out cold.

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SO the baby is Dean's. Of course. Haha. As always, reviews are encouraged and appreciated ;)


	4. Kissing

Part 4 - Kissing

A knock on the front door startled Sam out of his intent examination of the faint stretch marks on Gus's round stomach, the way her bellybutton had popped from an innie to an outie. He flipped the t-shirt back down, blushing guiltily even though no one was around to see. The sheer terror of his situation was gradually fading, being replaced somewhat by curiosity.

He was actually occupying the body of a pregnant woman. As wrong as that was, it was also kind of... fascinating.

Not that he would ever admit such a thing out loud; Dean would undoubtedly find out, and then the teasing would never end. Not that there was much chance of it ending anyways...

Sam struggled off the couch and back to his stolen, swollen feet, grimacing as his back twinged and his breasts throbbed and the creature inside him started somersaulting again, making him feel like he'd swallowed a small hyperactive monkey that was trying to burst through him _Alien_ style. Fuck, it was hard to move around. Even the short distance to the front door was exhausting and had to be crossed with a humiliating waddle.

He checked the peephole and saw a pizza delivery boy. A freckly, towheaded teenager, probably no older than seventeen, wearing a red cap and jacket and chomping lazily on a piece of gum.

Even though he probably shouldn't have, Sam found himself opening the door. Without having made the conscious decision to do so. It was eerie. Unsettling. Like Gus's body had reacted before Sam's logic had a chance to intervene... she must've really been craving that pizza...

"Hey, Tabby," the boy greeted brightly, stepping into the room without an invitation, "Got your usual." He slid a large pizza box out of the warmer, flashing a kind smile and chirping, "Mom said no charge for the extra jalapenos. And she wants to know if you're coming in tonight. She said she'd bake brownies."

Sam frowned and tried to think of an answer, but, before he could, the kid was right back to chattering. "You gotta come," he beamed, bouncing heavily onto the squashy old couch in the living room, "Frankie's band is playing, and he wrote you a song. He's too shy to say anything, but he really wants you to be there. Plus, Mom says it's not good for a pregnant chick to just sit around inside all day. You and the spawn need lotsa sunshine and fresh air. And the best pizza in the state, of course."

Clearing his throat as the kid finally went silent, Sam murmured, "I... um... I-I'll try."

The kid tilted his head a bit, sounding confused and concerned as he asked, "You alright? You're not, like, in labor or anything, are you? Cuz if you are, I can get you to the hospital hella fast."

"I'm fine," Sam replied, flushing uncomfortably when his voice came out in a strange squeak. He cleared his throat again (not that it helped much) and added, "Thanks though. You're nice to offer." He hoped that he was getting Gus's accent right, smiled and tried to seem normal.

Grinning brightly, the kid laughed and jumped back up to his feet, gave Gus's belly a fond rub and almost got himself decked. "For luck," he laughed, swiftly pecking Gus's cheek, winking and snagging a few bills out of Gus's purse and then heading out the door. "See ya later, Tabby," he called, "Eight o'clock! Don't forget! Call me if you wanna carpool!"

Almost as soon as Sam was alone again, the phone rang. He fumbled the disposable cell--still getting used to having such absurdly tiny hands--and finally managed to answer. "Dean?"

"_I got her_."

Sam breathed a sigh of relief, sinking back down to the couch.

"_She passed out when she saw your ugly mug staring back at her in the mirror_," Dean reported, lightly teasing even though his heart didn't really seem in it.

Remembering his own moment of discovery (and fainting directly afterward), Sam gave a sympathetic wince.

"_Sammy?_" he heard his brother declare, sounding odd and a little freaked out, a little choked up, "_She said... she said it's mine_."

Sam took his time processing the announcement. "I'm going to be an uncle?" he gaped, quickly assaulted by feelings of surprise and excitement and delight. And fear. Fear was a big one, along with... well, just weirdness. He was currently carrying his own niece or nephew... it was... well, honestly, vaguely incestual... hmmm...

"_Looks like_," Dean muttered, disturbed edging toward distraught, "_Dude, shit is majorly fucked up. I can't handle this _and_ the apocalypse!_"

Sam agreed that the timing could've been a bit better. But, then again, Winchesters never seemed to catch a break in such respects. "We'll get through it," he insisted, quite transparent in his desire to convince himself as well as his brother, "We always do."

xxXxx

Gus's disorientation and confusion at waking up in the brothers' motel room were short-lived. As soon as she set eyes on Dean, she whimpered and scrambled off the bed, backed herself into a corner and hugged Sam's flat stomach, looking forlorn and frightened. Mistrustful, but that one wasn't entirely new to see on his little brother's face lately.

"I didn't do anything to your baby," Dean soothed, keeping himself firmly on the other side of the room even though every instinct he had was screaming at him to rush to Sam, to get that look of sheer terror off Sam's face, "And I'm not a demon."

"Let's pretend for a second I actually believe you," Gus answered, broad frame trembling noticeably, "What is goin on?"

Dean chuckled weakly, half-heartedly, and explained, "An angel pulled me out of hell, but only after I set the apocalypse in motion. Now I'm trying to stop Lilith from breaking the 66 seals and freeing Lucifer and bringing about the end of days."

Gus blinked at him, blankly. "That's... nice," she drawled, motioning daintily to her borrowed face, "But I was actually talkin about _this_ situation."

(She had this way of making him feel like a moron without even really trying, and it seemed like a change of bodies hadn't diminished the effect.)

"We couldn't find you," Dean murmured, "Your house was wrecked, and no one knew where you went. Sam... he tried scrying and fucked it up somehow. And I guess you guys swapped bodies."

"You _guess_?" Gus hissed, frowning thoughtfully, pouting and jutting Sam's hip out in a truly unmanly fashion.

(Dean remembered all the pictures that Sam and Bobby had taken of him when he'd been de-aged and tried not to grin wickedly.)

He got a little lost in his thoughts and only came out of them when Gus interrupted. "I'd like that holy water now," she stammered hoarsely, probably about three seconds from freaking out again.

Dean wordlessly tossed a bottle on the bed, along with a rosary in case she wanted to do the blessing herself.

She did, wasting no time in squirting the divine liquid directly into Dean's face.

He spluttered a bit as some went up his nose but didn't complain.

Gus continued to glare skeptically, finally ordering, "Salt."

Dean rolled his eyes and grumbled but obliged, stuffing a handful of white granules into his mouth, swishing, and then spitting them into the trash can. He wiped his tongue off on the collar of his t-shirt. After a quick thought, Dean pulled the collar down a bit more, pointing at his unbroken anti-possession tattoo and winking brightly.

Gus's expression began to soften, but her next word was yet another tentative, "_Christo_." When nothing happened (again), her demeanor brightened considerably, Sam's dimples making a rare appearance. "Dean!" she exclaimed, suddenly flinging that gangly Sasquatch body across the room, trying to jump into Dean's arms like she was still a skinny midget.

They collided with a pained _oof_ and toppled to the floor in a tangle of flailing limbs. Dean got the wind knocked out of him as his back slammed into the thin motel carpet, Gus crushing him from above.

And then, before Dean could properly recover, could scold Gus about throwing his brother's weight around, Sam's lips crashed down onto Dean's.

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Haha, it was bound to happen ;) Review for instant good karma! (Come on, who doesn't want good karma?)


	5. Coping

Part 5 - Coping

"Never, _ever_ do that again!" Dean bellowed, pacing the motel room and frantically brushing his teeth, trying not to gag as he fought to forget the hot mucousy taste of his brother's tongue.

Ack.

Perched on the edge of the bed nearest the door, tree-trunk legs crossed prissily, Gus morphed Sam's features into an expression of impatience and exasperation. "I said I was sorry," she snapped, rolling Sam's eyes, fiddling with Sam's ridiculous bangs, "Excuse me for bein happy to see that the father of my child ain't stone-cold dead and burnin for all eternity."

Dean growled, rinsing and spitting and resuming his harried scrubbing. "I don't care if you're celebrating a cure for cancer!" he proclaimed, "As long as you're stuck in _my brother's body_, you keep his hands and everything else to yourself!"

"_Can you feel the love to-night_," Gus sing-songed, intently examining Sam's fingernails.

Heading back to the mouthwash on the counter, Dean shouted, "Just... just _don't_, ok? This is weird enough without you trying to jump me in my brother's skin!"

"It was only a kiss," Gus groused, "Get over it already. We got bigger things to worry on, like how to fix this catastrophe. You called Bobby yet?"

Dean shook his head, still understandably distracted. "How about we go back to the part where I'm _the father of your child_?" he said, "How did _that _happen?"

Gus smirked, laughed lightly and answered, "The usual way, sugarplum. Ain't my fault your little swimmer managed to wriggle through the rubber _and_ somehow dodge my birth-control pills. Not quite an immaculate conception but certainly impressive nonetheless."

Words could not even begin to express just how utterly _wrong_ the statement sounded coming out of Sam's mouth.

Scowling, spitting out another gulp of mouthwash, Dean complained, "How come you didn't tell anyone? Sam or Bobby would've helped you. Even Curtis or Darla Lee! Why'd you just run?"

Gus began to look kind of guilty. Or kind of scared. It was actually somewhat harder to read the emotion behind his brother's downcast eyes and awkward fidgeting. Had Sam been in control of the body, the behavior definitely would've meant guilt. But from Gus, it was probably fear.

"I had to disappear," she insisted, gnawing on the corner of Sam's mouth, "The angel said."

Dean was so fucking sick of angels. "Which one?" he crossly demanded.

"Zachariah," Gus murmured, nodding weakly, "That was his name."

Still feeling a bit stung from his recent encounter with that particular heavenly douchebag (having his memories rewritten and all), Dean resolved to punch old Zach the next time he saw him.

"A little after you died, a bunch of demons broke right through my wards and came into my house and held me hostage," Gus explained, shivering slightly, "They didn't really hurt me too bad, and they couldn't possess me. I chugged a bunch of holy water when I saw em comin in, so that bought me a little time. They tied me up and kept talkin about how they were gonna take my baby. I mean, I didn't even know I was pregnant yet, so it was kinda traumatic. After maybe ten minutes or so, everythin started shakin, then there was this big white flash, and when it had all stopped, the demons were gone, and Zachariah was there. He said I had to run. He said that I had to 'keep Dean Winchester's offspring from harm' and that I couldn't trust anybody. He talks like a slimy used-car salesman, but at the time I was just too scared to do anything else."

"Does he know where you are?" Dean questioned urgently, already thinking of the various ways that things could go bad for Sam, "I mean, your body? Does he know where you were staying?"

Shaking her head, Gus reported, "Nah, I don't think so. I was in Atlanta for a little while, but he kept poppin in and bein all creepy. After I was over the initial shock of the whole situation, I got thinkin that maybe not bein able to trust anybody meant I shouldn't trust him either. I did some protection spells and picked up some amulets and junk. Tryin to hide my presence, you know? And then I made off to California. I been there since, and I ain't seen any angels around. I have dreams every once in awhile. Zachariah tryin to convince me to tell him where I am, sayin he can protect me. But I think he's fulla crap."

Relieved and impressed but not entirely appeased, Dean gave a heavy sigh. He abandoned his toothbrush and flopped down into the empty bed, hoping futilely that his headache would go away. "I should call Sam," he said, thinking longingly about the half-full bottle of Jack in his duffle.

"Call Bobby," Gus ordered, "Your brother's fit and all, but I'm sick of wearin him. I feel like I'm walkin on stilts."

Dean snorted.

xxXxx

Jalapenos and pine nuts didn't sound like the best combination of pizza toppings, but one whiff of the concoction had Gus's mouth watering, and Sam was reluctant to deny the craving.

Munching on an unusual yet surprisingly delicious slice, he flopped down onto the squashy couch and propped Gus's achy feet up on a conveniently placed pillow. Having such short legs was strange, but at least the little creature inside him wasn't flailing around quite as much. The pizza must've calmed it down (confirming that it was, indeed, his brother's child).

He noticed a notebook stuck between the cushions and picked it up, leafing through a few pages of Gus's loopy, feminine handwriting. She'd been taking notes on the baby books she'd been reading, reminders about what she should and shouldn't be eating, what she should and shouldn't feed the baby once it was born, how to baby-proof a house.

Sam was amused to find that she'd also jotted down some ideas for names and that _Samuella _was the top choice for a girl. It was unusual, but he kind of liked it and felt oddly touched. Beside the name, she'd scrawled _because Dean would laugh_. The _gh_ was smudged and blurry, tear-stained.

Sam lost his appetite. But only briefly. Almost as soon as he stopped eating, the kid started stomping on his insides again and didn't quit until it was given more pizza.

Gus's disposable cell rang, and he answered with her mouth full. "Dean?" he grunted, chewing and swallowing quickly.

"_Nah_," his own voice purred, "_It's actually the rightful owner of that fine behind you went and hijacked_."

Sam winced. "Hey, Gus," he said.

"_Don't you _hey_ me, Sam Winchester_," the former beauty queen scolded, "_I am two weeks from my due date. I don't need this nonsense._"

"I-I'm really sorry," he stammered, hoping like hell that he wouldn't still be residing in the petite body when it actually did go into labor, let alone birth his fetal roommate. What a fucking nightmare that would be...

"_We can get to the apologies later_," Gus proclaimed, somewhat exasperated, extremely condescending, "_For now, I just wanna be sure that you're takin care of my baby. You got all the basics, right? No alcohol, no cigarettes, no rollercoasters_."

Feeling vaguely like his intelligence had just been insulted, Sam countered, "I know. And I found your notebook, so I've got that to go off for the rest."

"_Right on, Mr. Nosy_," Gus laughed, "_We're off to a decent start then. I wrote down pretty much everything you should need, so read up. Any questions in the meantime?_"

"Boy or girl?" Sam inquired, trying not to sound too excited.

Again, Gus laughed, reporting, "_No idea. All my blood tests and exams have been normal, so my midwife said I didn't need any sonograms. She showed me some studies that say they can affect brain development._"

Considering what he knew of Gus's penchant for alternative and homeopathic medicine, Sam figured she'd probably hired the biggest incense-waving, aura-cleansing, Birkenstock-wearing freak for three counties. He resolved to take the former beauty queen's body to a proper hospital, just to make sure everything was alright with his niece or nephew.

"_Anyways_," his own voice continued, "_Dean's on the phone with Bobby right now, and then I think we're probably gonna drive and get you. Shouldn't take more than a day or two. And then I guess we'll all be campin out at Bobby's place again until he can figure out how to swap us back._"

"Cool," Sam muttered, "Curtis'll be really excited." The deputy always asked how Gus was doing and had been almost as distraught as Dean had when he found out she was missing. After caring for her as an infant, Curtis still held a pretty strong attachment to the bitchy woman she'd reverted to.

"_That dumbass_," Gus replied, laughing fondly, "_You know, him and Norah were still sendin me Christmas cards and pictures of their dopey kid?_"

"Clara's adorable," Sam defended, thinking of the deputy and doctor's sunny, strawberry-blonde toddler. He grinned and added, "Curtis said he was going to teach her to call you Auntie Gus."

Gus groaned.

xxXxx

Bobby was going to be exactly zero help until he stopped laughing, so Dean set the phone down and went back to packing. Even in the bathroom, he could still hear the old mechanic's helpless cackles booming out of the tiny speaker.

Dean sighed. Ya, the whole thing was _hilarious_, but he was no longer able to appreciate it properly. He was going to be a father. In what twisted dimension did he deserve that honor? And how was he even supposed to make a decent attempt with the apocalypse looming? He didn't foresee any kind of happy future for himself or his kid or the planet, so what was the point? A kid was just one more person he would love and then fail.

Gus returned to the room, chuckling and twirling Sam's hair, walking with wobbly, exagerrated steps. She almost tripped, again, on his too-long legs, and then let his body flop down onto the bed. "All quiet on the western front," she reported brightly, "Your brother's got the spawn well looked after."

"Awesome," Dean answered distractedly. He was tired but didn't have time to sleep. He wanted a drink but had to drive. He wanted Bobby to stop laughing and start being helpful.

"Who pissed in your cornflakes?" Gus muttered, clearly offended. She huffed and gathered Sam's hair into a short ponytail, which she then secured with a bright pink elastic produced seemingly from nowhere. She inspected her reflection in the tacky ceiling mirror.

Dean could only stare. "Dude," he said.

"Ugh," Gus complained, fiddling with the fringe that hadn't been long enough to tie back, brushing it one way across Sam's forehead and then the other, "Bangs are so annoyin. Sam pulls 'em off well, but I'll never understand how he tolerates havin 'em in his face all the time."

Dean continued to stare, finding that his hand had gone for the cameraphone all on its own.

Huh.

Giving up for the moment, Gus turned her attentions to feeling Sam up. "Good lord," she murmured with an impressed whistle, giving Sam's pecs a light, appreciative squeeze, "This boy must spend every free second doin pushups." She peeled up the hem of his t-shirt and patted his abs, adding, "Situps, too. I guess the silver linin is that I didn't end up with a beer gut and love handles and a fat ass."

"I'm very happy for you," Dean deadpanned. Grabbing Sam's hands before the physical examination could move any lower, he hasitly added, "Could you not grope my brother in my presence?"

Gus smirked and chuckled, accusing, "Prude. I'm gonna see everythin anyways. And it's not like Sam's gonna be able to avoid _takin stock_ in my skin, so to speak. You have any idea how many times a day I was havin to pee? Or how sore my breasts are?"

"Thankfully, no," Dean answered, finally cracking a reluctant smirk because he bet his brother did. Heh. Silver lining, indeed.

xxxxxxxxxx

mwahaha. Reviews are love ;)


	6. Driving

Part 6 - Driving

After finally getting off the phone with Bobby (getting laughed at and scolded and then grilled endlessly about every detail of the botched spell), Sam went back to wandering aimlessly, anxiously through Gus's house. He ate another two slices of pizza and a pint of organic vanilla ice cream and felt stuffed yet still absolutely ravenous.

But he (momentarily) gave up on slaking his hunger after coming across Gus's car keys. He bundled up in a puffy white coat and took a trip outside to inspect the beat-up old station wagon parked in her driveway. It wasn't much, but all the important parts appeared to be functional. And although there were about two feet of snow on the ground, the roads were clear. He took a moment to just admire the woodland scenery, breathing in the clean, cold mountain air and thinking that it would probably be a good place to raise a kid.

Sam was just about to step back inside and help himself to another slice of pizza when he spotted another car driving up the rural, tree-lined street. There were no other houses around, so either the person was lost or was coming to see Gus.

Indeed, the car, a late-model beige sedan, swung up onto the driveway, and a skinny, kind of frail-looking older woman jumped out with a surprising amount of energy. She had stark white, close-cropped hair and wore big cat-eye sunglasses and a gauzy patchwork skirt and a fuzzy poncho that had a color scheme best described as Day-Glo vomit. Sam figured her for Gus's midwife and mentally congratulated himself for accurately predicting that she would be an incense-waving, aura-cleansing, Birkenstock-wearing freak. (Sam just assumed that, had the weather been better, the woman's hideous faux-fur boots would've been the more traditional hippie-chic sandals.)

"Yoohooo!" the white-haired woman yodeled in greeting, carrying a huge floral-print tote bag and skipping up the driveway, immediately stooping to plant a swift peck to each of Gus's cheeks. "Hey, Mommy," she beamed, looming about a foot taller than Gus's petite frame; damn, Sam had forgotten how much he hated being short. Gus wasn't even _that _short, just... well, when you're rightfully six feet and change, almost everyone else seems like a midget in comparison.

"How are we feeling?" the woman inquired sweetly, giving Gus's belly a fond rub, not waiting for an answer before grabbing her breasts, "Still tender?"

Sam hissed and flinched back from the touch. Good god, that was _painful_. Like having nuts hanging from his chest and then getting kicked in them. _Fuck_. "A little," Sam forced himself to say, slightly horrified that he'd just been felt up by a 1960s acid casualty. One whose name he couldn't even remember. Gus had told him, but he couldn't remember; it was something that sounded made up... Persephone or Persimmon or Pompodore...

"Well, we'll just have to see what we can do about that," the woman proclaimed, steering Gus's body back into the house and immediately guiding it down onto the couch. She dragged a chair in from the kitchen and sat down as well. "Try to relax," the woman soothed, letting her wispy hands hover pointedly above Gus's head in a yes-I-am-a-delusional-freak kind of manner, "I'm sensing a very tense energy from you today. Has something happened?"

Sam opened his mouth to lie but, very abruptly, remembered fainting in the bathroom. He didn't think he'd hurt the baby, but he thought he should probably be sure. "I-I fainted," Sam murmured, "And I fell backwards. Just onto my butt."

"Have you had any spotting or cramping?" the woman inquired, closing her eyes and humming, placing both hands on Gus's stomach. They felt cold even through the t-shirt.

"No," Sam answered. He would've definitely noticed _that_, especially with the ridiculous number of bathroom visits he'd been making. "It's still movin around and everything," he added quietly, mimicking a soft Southern accent with little effort.

"Hmm," the woman murmured, "Yes, there is plenty of movement. And I don't sense any distress. I don't think the baby was hurt, but I'll put you on the fetal heart monitor for awhile and get a blood pressure and maybe some blood tests, and then I think a sonogram. I know we agreed it wasn't necessary, but I'd just like to be on the safe side. The fetus should be perfectly viable, so if there is a problem, we can have the little one out right away." She smiled and smoothed Gus's hair back from her forehead, instructing, "_Relax_, alright? I'll let you know when it's time to really worry."

Strangely, Sam actually did feel a lot better, warm contentment crashing over him as he nodded hesitantly. Maybe he'd been too quick to mistrust Gus's chosen incense-waving, aura-cleansing, Birkenstock-wearing freak of a midwife.

The woman beamed and stood, announcing, "I'll just fetch the equipment out of my car, and then we can get started."

xxXxx

Driving with the windows down kept a steady stream of frigid January air blasting straight into Dean's face; the air kept him awake and focused as he guided the Impala along the rapidly darkening roads between him and his brother.

Well, his brother's soul, anyways.

Because that's what Bobby said had happened: a soul swap. They were rare but not unheard of, and apparently Sam's description of the event (not to mention the results) made a swap the only likely scenario. Even though the distance over which it had happened was unprecedented. Bobby couldn't explain exactly why the spell went wrong, but he was confident in his ability to reverse it. Eventually.

But Dean couldn't think about that at the moment. He couldn't think about anything. The only thing keeping him going was the need to reach Sam.

"Dean?" Gus asked, squirming shotgun as she fought to get Sam's long legs into a comfortable position, "You alright? You need me to drive?"

Dean snorted, sending her a weak sideways smile. "Not a chance," he chuckled, "You can barely steer Sam's gangly ass."

"And _you _look like you're about to pass out," Gus argued. She fidgeted and sighed, stretching Sam's big gorilla arms out along the back of the seat. She tilted his head back and puffed his bangs out of his eyes, softly murmuring, "How much longer?"

"Awhile," Dean quipped, "We're not even through Nebraska."

"You should at least pull over and get a nap," Gus suggested.

Dean shook his head and insisted, "I'll be fine."

They drove another fifty miles or so without conversation, just the wind and the soothing wails of Jimmy Page's guitar.

"Is it a boy or a girl?" Dean finally asked. As shocked and terrified as he was, he'd been dying to find out

Laughing softly, Gus answered, "I don't know yet."

Feeling kind of stupid, Dean nodded and chewed on his lip and questioned, "You, uh... you pick a name?"

"Samuella Mary Regina Winchester for a girl," Gus announced rather primly, "Dominick John Robert Winchester for a boy." At Dean's inquisitive glance, she added, "Regina was my mama's name, and Dominick was my daddy's."

"Oh," Dean said, clearing his throat as he turned the names over in his head... "I actually... ya, I like those. They're... strong."

"That's what I thought, too," Gus gushed, giggling brightly, restlessly crossing and uncrossing Sam's ankles, "You're not upset I wasn't gonna name it after you, right? I wasn't sure you'd have wanted me to, and I tried to pick names you would've liked, too. I mean, before I knew you weren't really dead. Well, dead anymore. You sure you like those? Cuz I'm not totally committed. If you have any suggestions, you're more than welcome to put 'em in the runnin."

Dean listened to her rapid-fire response with little comprehension, still just a bit lost in his own thoughts. After a longer-than-comfortable pause in the conversation, he hastily announced, "No, those are fine. They're... ya, I like those."

He could feel Gus's impatient stare boring into the side of his head. "You freakin out?" she finally demanded.

"Kinda," Dean admitted.

Gus gave a bitter smirk, twirling her ridiculous ponytail and stating, "It's normal. I spent nearly the whole first month after I found out cryin nonstop. But that passes. If it helps, my expectations are low. Just the fact that you're breathin is a step up from what I thought I was gettin in a baby-daddy."

Dean hated when Gus said things like that, when he wasn't sure whether to be flattered or insulted. Fucking irritating little witch...

"Anyways," she added, "I know you're probably gonna keep on worrin no matter what I say, but it ain't necessary. I got things handled."

"I'm unnecessary," Dean interpreted for himself, "That makes me feel a lot better. Thanks."

Laughing, shaking Sam's head, Gus snapped, "That ain't what I said, and you know it." She sighed heavily, squirming again and complaining, "Your brother is in serious need of a visit to the chiropractor. His spine's got more kinks than the Marquis de Sade."

Dean chuckled and observed, "Sasquatch Syndrome. He's had back problems ever since shooting past the six-foot mark."

"Peachy," Gus said, "Think I could get a chance to stretch this behemoth out a bit?"

Squinting down the road a ways, Dean murmured, "Looks like there's a truck stop a few miles ahead. I guess I could stand for a coffee break."

xxXxx

"Oh my," the midwife murmured, beady brown eyes growing wide as she peered down at the small, grainy screen of the portable ultrasound machine.

Straining to get a look, Sam asked, "What? What's wrong?" If he'd hurt the baby, he would never forgive himself. Though that probably wouldn't last long because Gus would slaughter him ruthlessly. Or at the very least make him live out the rest of his life as a toad.

The midwife shook her head, cleared her sinewy throat and answered, "Nothing. Nothing at all. Just... well..."

"_Well_?" Sam demanded, feeling absurdly vulnerable stretched out on his back on the couch, his t-shirt peeled up and a bunch of cold gel slathered all over Gus's pregnant stomach.

Clearing her throat yet again, the woman gave a watery smile and declared, "The babies are fine. Strong, healthy heartbeats and excellent development."

Sam blinked at her for a few moments. "I'm sorry?" he warbled, suddenly feeling like he might burst into tears from shock alone, "Did you say _babies_? As in _more than one_?"

"You're having twins!" the woman gushed, wheeling the grainy little screen closer and pointing at a tangle of tiny limbs and two distinct alien heads, "Would you like to know the sexes?"

Sam gaped, suddenly finding himself on the urge of hot, helpless tears.

(He felt perfectly justified in blaming them on Gus's hormones.)

xxxxxxxxxx

More twists than a crazy straw, and many more to come. Oh yeah.

Reviews, as always, are hot monkey love ;)


	7. Stretching

Part 7 - Stretching

Dean came out of the truck stop with two large Styrofoam cups of boiling, coffee-like sludge and immediately noticed quite a few bystanders staring at his car. Such an occurrence wasn't particularly unusual by any means--she was an _awesome_ car, after all--but that time the people--mostly grizzled truckers--didn't seem to be admiring the classic. They were... laughing, some snickering subtly and others outright pointing and cackling.

As he got closer, Dean realized that the people weren't looking and laughing at his car; they were looking and laughing at his little brother, who was inexplicably folded in half with his hands on the pavement, ass in the air.

"What're you doing?" Dean inquired warily, sending uncomfortable glances out at their small audience (anything to avoid looking at the spectacle he was related to).

"Downward-Facin Dog," Gus replied serenely, breathing deeply in and out through her nose. After a brief beat, she added, "Yoga."

"_Why_?" Dean gaped.

Gus let Sam's body go to its knees on the grungy old beach towel she'd spread out beneath it, sitting back on Sam's heels and tucking his head down and stretching his arms forward. She looked like she was worshiping. "I told you," she sighed impatiently, pretty much addressing the asphalt, "Your brother's got the kinkiest spine for three counties. I took a few pre-natal yoga classes while I was in Atlanta, and they really helped my back pain."

Dean felt a headache coming on. "Stop," he begged, very aware of the strange looks they were getting, "Now."

"In a minute," Gus replied, pressing up again into Bad Dog Position (or whatever it was called) and wiggling Sam's butt at the sky. She stayed like that for far longer than Dean felt was appropriate, breathing rhythmic and steady, before going down onto all fours and arching Sam's spine up and down. A series of audible, meaty pops echoed across the frigid parking lot, and Gus sighed happily. "Much better," she beamed, stretching for a little while longer before standing, twisting back and forth a few times and rolling Sam's burly shoulders. Grinning brightly, Gus reported, "I love yoga."

A large bearded trucker was stomping in their direction, grimacing angrily in massive cowboy boots and a dingy parka that almost didn't fit over his impressive upper body.

Dean put himself between Gus and the trucker and began mentally cataloguing ways to take the guy down if he started trouble, which seemed likely.

"You some kinda circus performer?" the trucker demanded, not quite hostile but getting there, shooting Gus the evil eye.

Unfazed, the out-of-body beauty queen drawled, "No, sir. Just doin a few yoga stretches. They fix up my sore back in a jiff."

The trucker's expression softened a bit (though it was hard to tell through all the dark, ungroomed facial hair). "Really?" he asked skeptically, "I never figured any a' that _new age_ crap was actually worth nothin... does it work on sciatica?"

_You gotta be freakin kidding me_, Dean thought bitterly.

"Oh, sure," Gus gushed, short ponytail swinging as she gestured energetically, "I was in a class with this one lady, and she was havin the _worst_ sciatica durin her pregnancy. She could barely move. The teacher put her in a couple poses, and it was like magic. No more pain at all." She snagged her coffee from Dean's hands, taking a dainty sip and grimacing. She complained, "Christ, you siphon this outta somebody's gas tank?"

Dean fought the urge to slam his head against the Impala.

Chuckling gruffly, the trucker commented, "They make a strong brew round these parts. Let it cool down some, and it'll taste a bit better."

Gus grinned, "Thanks for the tip. Anyways, I think we gotta get goin. It was real nice meetin you, and I hope you do give yoga a try."

"I just might, son," the trucker said with a bushy smirk. He shook Sam's hand, laughing at Gus's wince and adding, "You boys have a nice drive. And be careful, y'hear? Blizzard's comin in real soon."

Back in the car, back on the road, Gus hummed along with the radio and commented, "He was real sweet."

Dean... well, he decided to just concentrate on driving.

xxXxx

Sam desperately wanted the midwife to leave so that he could have the opportunity to freak out privately and then call Gus to give her the... news...

Well, it was good news. Like, really, really good news (he supposed). Twins. Two kids. A niece and a nephew; he hadn't been able to resist finding out. Sam was kind of having a difficult time wrapping his mind around the concept of lugging two little people around in his gut. Somehow, it was worse than finding himself pregnant to begin with. And that didn't even make sense, but there it was.

"Your blood pressure is a little high," the midwife was saying.

Sam blinked out of his thoughts and stared up at her, still struggling to remember the strange woman's strange name... Paisley? Pandora? Parthenon? Priapism? Being pregnant was seriously messing with his ability to concentrate and to retain relevant information (not to mention to treat horrible situations with the seriousness they were due, but the ridiculous thoughts were probably a symptom of his ever-increasing distress).

Removing the pressure cuff from around Gus's stick-thin arm, the woman gave a soft smile and soothed, "It's probably not serious. I know you've had a bit of a shock, but I do need you to relax if I'm going to get an accurate reading. If I can't rule out pre-eclampsia, then you'll have to go into the hospital. Maybe even undergo a C-section."

Knowing that that would be one of the last things he needed, Sam took a deep breath and did his best to comply with the order.

It became easier when, moments later, the white-haired midwife received a phone call and excused herself to take it outside on the driveway. Sam sank into the squashy plaid couch and closed his eyes, mentally assembling and disassembling the weapons in the Winchester arsenal, reciting the words to every exorcism he knew. It was kind of a fucked-up means of relaxation, but it worked. Pretty much always had. And he could feel Gus's pulse noticeably slowing even as the fetuses continued to wrestle. Actually, as long as they stayed away from internal organs, the movement was strangely... soothing...

In fact, Sam soon found himself relaxed enough to fall into a light, dreamless slumber. He was so out of it that he answered Gus's phone without realizing he'd actually done so, suddenly finding the speaker pressed to his ear and his rightful voice chiming, "_Hello? Sam? You there?_"

"Uh huh," Sam hummed, yawning and feeling oddly content (almost happy) in the cozy little living room.

"_Bad news_," Gus declared, "_We got past Cheyenne, and then they closed the roads. It's a pretty bad storm. Dean's gettin us a room for the night, but hopefully we'll be able to head out by tomorrow afternoon at the latest_."

"Ok," Sam said. He then frowned. Cheyenne? They'd made it to Wyoming already? How long had he been asleep? A quick glance toward the dark window indicated that it had been at least an hour or two... where had the midwife gone? Speaking of whom... "What's the midwife's name again?"

"_Prosperine_," Gus stated brightly, "_Did she stop by? Is everythin alright?_" After a brief pause, Gus giggled unbecomingly and viciously teased, "_Did Sammy get fingered?_"

The indignation was only outweighed by the utter mortification.

And then _Sammy_ had the kind of absurd thought that Dean and Gus really were perfect for each other. That they _deserved_ each other, the psychos. (As far as he knew, his brother and Gus didn't even have a real relationship past sex and companionship and mutual annoyance, and yet it was _so obvious_. They were pretty much the only people who could drive each other as crazy as they drove everyone else, each the obnoxious yin to the other's insecure yang.)

"Ok, first off, _no_," he scolded, appalled, "Secondly, don't say shit like that! And especially not in front of Dean!"

"_Well, Dean ain't around right now_," Gus cackled, quite clearly enjoying herself, "_C'mon, Sam, you can tell me. Or maybe you need professional counseling? Prosperine does have some cold hands. That sorta thing can be traumatic. Cry it out, my friend. I'm here for you._"

"You're having twins," Sam blurted, apparently so desperate for a subject change that he couldn't conjure even a smidgen of tact.

He squirmed guiltily at the silence on the line, even more so when Gus finally responded, "_E-Excuse me?_"

As if he hadn't put the poor woman through enough. "Uh, twins," Sam murmured, "A boy and a girl... congratulations?"

More silence, and then an abrupt dial tone...

Oops.

xxXxx

"Let's go get drunk," Gus suggested immediately upon Dean's return from the motel office.

Dean stared across the Impala's interior, trying to determine what the hell had gotten into his occasional-fuck-buddy-baby-mama-trapped-inside-his-baby-brother's-body.

(He suddenly longed for simpler times, when the most he had to wrap his mind around were things like killer clowns and eternity in hell and the looming apocalypse.)

"We're stuck here anyways," Gus defended, picking anxiously at a frayed spot on Sam's Xtra Tall Levis, "Might as well make the most of the time. I ain't had booze in forever. And I could go for a real unhealthy meal as long as it won't be my actual ass it ends up on."

Something was up. Dean was sure of it. Gus had been uncharacteristically upbeat for most of the journey. The emotional one-eighty was... worrisome. Almost as worrisome as her general cheerfulness had been in the first place...

"You don't have to come, but I'm goin," Gus pouted. She sounded pissed, maybe freaked. "Actually," she added, "You shouldn't come. You should get some sleep, since you're bein all bitchy about the drivin. Yeah. See ya later, Winchester." With a slam of the Impala's door, she was gone, run off in his brother's skin yet again.

Dean was about to go after her, cursing the fact that he would have to chase the crazed witch through a goddamn blizzard, when his phone rang.

"_Dean_," Sam murmured guiltily, voice high and sheepish, "_I... uh... there's something you should know..._"

xxxxxxxxxx

Well. there it is. Finally, I know. Many humble apologies for the delay, but my computer caught a nasty virus and was out for almost a week being fixed up by my friends at the Geek Squad. Good thing all my files were backed up externally or else I would've been completely screwed. Reviews will be a welcome distraction after such a shitty week ;)


	8. Drinking

Part 8 - Drinking

"Here's to motherhood!" Gus proclaimed loudly, putting a little too much _oomph_ into the toast and sloshing half of her shot directly onto the top of Dean's head when he approached.

Shivering irritably as the frigid vodka slithered down the length of his spine, the blonde complained, "Dude, come on!"

Gus rolled Sam's eyes, snapping, "Fine. To fatherhood, too. I guess. Drama queen." She tilted the remainder of the shot back into Sam's gaping mouth and slammed down the empty glass, nearly shattering it with excessive force.

"You really gotta ease up," Dean pointed out, painfully aware of just how many looks they were already getting from the backwoods locals in the small but crowded bar. The thing with the open-minded-to-yoga trucker had been a fluke; Gus was liable to get Sam's ass kicked if she kept acting the way she was acting.

Of course, any hope of the night _not_ ending badly flew out the window when a pretty redheaded waitress bounced up to the table, and Gus, apparently having already bonded with the girl over the last drink order, abruptly announced, "This is Dean. I'm havin his babies, and I figure he'd like a whiskey or two. Another round of the same for me, thanks. You guys still servin food? What's edible here?"

The waitress, seeming both confused and uncomfortable, slowly replied, "Uh... most people like the cheeseburgers and hot wings."

"Two cheeseburgers with everything, please," Gus chimed with heavily forced faux sweetness, "And some fries would be great. The burgers come with fries?"

The poor waitress nodded and then scurried off as fast as she could go, whispering hurriedly to the skinny old guy behind the bar as they both stared worriedly at the Winchester party.

Dean bit back a groan, once again trying desperately to reason with the woman inside his brother. "Ever heard of keeping a low profile?" he growled, hopping up onto a tall barstool on the other side of the tall table.

After sucking down most of her beer in one impressive gulp, Gus replied, "Ever heard of lettin an expectant mother drink in peace?"

"Sam doesn't handle hard liquor well," Dean fired back, "So slow it down cuz I'm not carrying you outta here."

"I didn't ask you to," Gus snapped, kicking him under the table, probably a lot harder than intended since she nearly sent his kneecap flying across the room.

By the time Dean had breathed through the excruciating, vision-blackening agony, there were two more empty shot glasses in front of his brother...

xxXxx

After returning from "meditating" in the backyard, Prosperine took Gus's blood pressure again and left Sam with a clean bill of health and instructions to relax.

Twenty minutes later, the pizza boy showed up wanting to give Gus a ride to the pizza parlor, and he wouldn't take no for an answer.

"C'mon, Tabby," the towheaded teen teased, "Frankie really wants you to come! His band's playing, and he wrote you a song and everything!"

Sam didn't think it was a good idea. Gus seemed pretty popular with the locals (who knew her as Tabitha Morgan, 26 (_Yeah right_,Sam mentally chuckled)), but although she had given him a bit of a crash course in the major players of her new life, Sam wasn't confident in his ability to fake his way through any extended interaction.

But the pizza boy (Enzo Shepherd, 17) was insistent and oddly persuasive, irresistibly friendly, and Sam soon found himself sitting shotgun in the kid's old Ford pickup, the interior of which smelled like pizza and made Gus's mouth water.

(Ok. So maybe Sam just couldn't resist the promise of more pizza. But, in his defense, it was _really_ good pizza.)

The towheaded kid chattered pretty much nonstop during the ride, and Sam listened halfheartedly (not wanting to seem rude but not in the least bit interested in the kid's girlfriend or AP Lit class or the baseball scholarship he hoped to get). In fact, aside from being excessively happy and talkative, Enzo seemed almost frighteningly normal.

And within fifteen minutes, they pulled off the narrow, snow- and tree-lined streets and into a crowded parking lot outside a small, square brick building. Outside, in between two impressive pines, a bright neon sign read _Pizza and Harmony_.

Sam was still moving kind of slow, slow enough for Enzo to jump out of the cab and scurry around in time to open the passenger door. He hovered while Sam struggled to climb down, and then the boy offered his arm, chuckling, "It's kinda icy tonight. I wouldn't want you falling."

Despite _really_ not wanting to, Sam returned a weak smile and slid Gus's hand into the crook of the teen's elbow. It was humiliating, and certainly not good for Sam's currently fragile self-image. But, well, he didn't want to fall. And waddling across the length of the parking lot _was_ a lot easier with Enzo to hang onto.

(Sam had never been on the receiving end of chivalry before and found it odd yet touching and was glad that he had engaged in the other side of the activity whenever possible.)

As they approached the building, Sam noticed that the lights were off inside. Which was strange. The fine hairs on the back of Gus's neck stood on end almost painfully. He heard... a sound like someone whispering in his ears but on the wrong side of the eardrums, the words unable to escape the small cavity and building up with agonizing pressure.

_Shhh!_

_She's here!_

_She's coming!_

_Ok, be quiet and get ready!_

_Everybody better be quiet and get ready!_

Sam stumbled back a step, dizzy, but was immediately pushed forward again, Enzo laughing and gently manhandling him in through the door and into the darkness.

An interminable second passed, no more mysterious voices but some faint giggling, sounds of faint movement. Sam's hand itched for a gun, a knife, _anything_ that he might be able to successfully wield as a weapon.

And then the lights came on in a flash, a few dozen people suddenly jumping out from behind tables, throwing pink and blue streamers and brightly shouting, "SURPRISE!!"

Sam stared at them all in confusion, backing up and into Enzo's chest. "What the fuck is this?" he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

With a soft chuckle, Enzo squeezed Gus's shoulder and answered, "This is your baby shower!"

xxXxx

Cursing quietly, Dean stretched out his sore knee and glared in the direction of the restroom, where Gus had drunkenly staggered not too long ago. He wouldn't have let her go alone (she tended to get herself in trouble when she wandered into public toilets in altered states), but Dean wasn't entirely sure his leg could bear weight yet; they were going to have to have a serious discussion about her reigning in Sam's strength, or at least not using it on Dean.

As soon as Gus sobered up and calmed the hell down, of course. Sure, Dean kind of understood what she was going through--he was also about to be a father of two and was having his own issues with the situation--but that was no excuse to have a complete breakdown. Especially after Gus had seemed so... well-adjusted during most of the rest of the day.

He was still trying to wrap his mind around that odd aspect, too. Gus wasn't a particularly happy _or_ rational person, but she'd been relatively cheerful and well-adjusted up until Sam's boneheaded announcement. It was... strange.

Dean didn't know what to make of it. He didn't like not knowing what to make of it. There were enough unpredictable elements at play already.

And having watched Gus eat her burger like a crazy person certainly hadn't helped anything. First, she individually picked each sesame seed off the bun, piling them on the edge of her plate. Then she elegantly removed and lazily devoured the pickles, then the tomatoes, onions, and lettuce. She scraped off the corners of cheese that hung over the sides of the round burger patty, sucking the yellow goo off her fingers with small, pleased moans. When her burger was nothing but bread and meat and perfectly trimmed cheese, she layered some fries inside it in a precise crosshatch and proceeded to tear off bite-sized pieces of the concoction, dunking each one gently in the pool of ketchup she'd slopped onto the plate. Every time she popped a chunk in Sam's huge mouth, she would sigh happily and chew daintily and then take a swig of beer.

The woman was clearly insane; Dean had nearly crawled out of his skin just observing the whole production, really quite amazed at how much and how effortlessly she could annoy him, very sincerely hoping that her oddness wasn't genetic.

A commotion near the bathrooms had him on his feet before he remembered his bum knee. He nearly fell flat on his face, tripping and then limping on despite the pain, pushing through the gawking crowds.

Dean arrived outside the bathroom just in time to watch Gus get tossed out backwards and right onto Sam's ass. She was holding Sam's cheek, and in the half second it took Dean to actually make it to her side, she burst into tears.

A very large, very mean-looking bald guy came stomping out after her, fists clenched and fly down and murderous gaze focused squarely on Gus. He faltered when he saw her actually crying, backing up a bit and seeming puzzled but no less pissed off.

Dean pieced together at least some rudimentary details very quickly. "What the fuck?!" he shouted at the bald guy, standing and getting right in his face, "You did _not_ punch my brother!" _And in effect the pregnant mother of my children trapped inside him_, Dean thought but didn't say as his rage multiplied exponentially.

Mr. Clean snarled, baring grungy yellow teeth that seemed out of place on his comparatively young face. He answered, "Fuckin fag was staring at my cock!"

"You wish, asshole!" Gus wailed, distraught yet resolute, indignant, "I was just tryin to tell you that you had mustard on your pants! I was tryin to be _nice_!" (She spat the word like it was a somewhat foreign concept, which, granted, it probably was.)

Dean and Mr. Clean and the gathering audience all glanced down and, indeed, found a goopy smear of yellow on the guy's denim-clad thigh.

Mr. Clean went from snarling to blustering, pale face and shiny dome flushing pink in clear embarrassment as he watched Gus blubber. As he got some nasty looks from the other bar patrons, some of whom had obviously assumed that there was something wrong with Sam, a developmental challenge or emotional problem that should've made him off limits to such drunken, moronic, homophobic violence.

"Dean," Gus sobbed, still holding Sam's cheek, "I wanna go _home_!"

Glancing down quickly at his brother's huddled, miserable form, Dean quietly soothed, "Sure, dude. One sec." He then whipped back around and decked Mr. Clean, laid the big bastard out with just one vicious punch. After a moment of smirking over the man's prone form, Dean returned to his baby brother/baby mama and helped her up from the floor. It was a struggle, half-carrying the Sasquatch through the still gawking crowds as his knee screamed in pain, but Dean pretty much had to.

The cute redheaded waitress was waiting beside their table, anxiously wringing a rag in her slim hands. "I, uh," she began sheepishly, "The manager said that your meal's on the house. And we're sorry about Vernon. He's kinda hotheaded."

"Keep him on a leash if you want him to live past tomorrow," Dean snapped, feeling immediately guilty when the waitress cowered. He sighed and tossed a ten on the table, adding, "For you, sweetheart. Thanks for putting up with us." He cast one last mournful look at his half-full bottle of beer before lugging Gus out into the blizzard.

She cried all the way back to the motel, though by then it was more feeble sniffles that were probably more due to the excessive amount of vodka she'd consumed rather than any excruciating pain. She clung to his shoulders and tripped over Sam's big feet, putting too much weight on Dean and making his knee throb angrily.

After finally dumping Gus into the bed farthest from the door, Dean sighed deeply and tried to pry Sam's hand away from Sam's cheek. "C'mon," Dean prompted gently, "Lemme see."

When she finally did, Dean almost laughed. It was _nothing_, a little redness across the cheekbone that probably wouldn't even bruise once they iced it. As far as Dean knew, Gus had never been punched before; heap that on top of her current drunkenness and general girliness, and she had majorly overreacted to a relatively light hit (after all, Sam routinely had his skull bashed in without complaint, let alone _crying_). However, it was still only Gus's wide-eyed devastation that kept the hunter from telling her to man up.

"You'll be ok," he soothed, "But for future reference, proper etiquette in the men's room is eyes straight forward and no conversation with strangers." He wrestled her out of Sam's jacket and boots and jeans and first two layers of t-shirts. He carefully slid the elastic out of Sam's shaggy hair and tucked Sam's freakishly long limbs under the motel sheets. He made Gus drink a few glasses of water, slapped a cold pack on her and told her to sleep. All in all, she was actually a lot more cooperative than his brother usually was in such situations.

"I had a plan," the woman muttered blearily, somehow managing to curl Sam's huge form into a tight, tiny ball beneath the threadbare covers. "Before," she slurred, clearly on the verge of passing out, "When it was just gonna be one baby to look after. I had a plan. It was good, and it woulda worked. I-I don't know what to do with two. There ain't gonna be enough space or time or money. I'm gonna be _outnumbered_!"

Dean laughed gruffly. "You know," he said, smirking, "I can get cash. And I do have some experience with babies. I seem to recall you praising my diaper-changing abilities."

Gus snorted into the thin pillow, countering, "Ain't you busy with the impendin apocalypse?"

"I'll make time," Dean defended softly, "They're my kids, too." He was kind of hurt that Gus didn't consider his participation to be a given. Maybe if he'd spent less time freaking out and more time stepping up... fuck, the kids weren't even born yet, and Gus pretty much already considered him a deadbeat. He was such a _loser_...

"Dean?" Gus yawned, probably at least a few minutes later.

Shaking himself out of self-deprecating thoughts, Dean glanced down at her.

She gave a weak half smile, sparing the sore side of Sam's face. "I'm glad you ain't dead," she murmured, eyes drifting shut, "Growin up without a daddy sucks." She was pretty much out for the count after that.

Dean watched the woman in his brother's body with a sense of inexplicable fondness. Bittersweet regret. Heart-wrenching fear. He pressed a hand to Sam's smooth forehead and quietly argued, "Growing up with a hunter for a dad isn't exactly a picnic..."

xxxxxxxxxx

I'm going somewhere with the hearing voices thing. Just come along for the ride :)


	9. Showering

Part 9 - Showering

Sam would choose digging up a grave over attending a baby shower any damn day of the week. But attending a baby shower as the guest of honor? Well, the young hunter would rather shoot himself in the foot.

_Pizza and Harmony_ was a cute little pizza parlor and seemed to be a local favorite; most of the population of the tiny Northern California town had turned out for the festivities, and everyone appeared to be very at home. Kids of all ages ran through the rows of picnic-style wooden tables, laughing and carefree while the parents traded jokes and gossip over fully organic pizza pies and microbrew beers.

Gus had failed to mention that the town was apparently a bit of a hippie haven, boasting its fair share of long-haired men and braless women (which actually made Sam feel a lot less self-conscious about being unwilling to wrestle Gus's swollen breasts into any appropriate undergarments).

No sodas or candy were served on the premises, but signs behind the ancient cash register advertised an array of fresh-squeezed juices and sugar-free desserts that Sam actually thought looked pretty good. He remembered Enzo mentioning something about brownies that morning and wondered if he was going to be getting one any time soon.

Having a brownie in hand certainly would've made the baby shower games _a lot_ more bearable.

Granted, Sam hadn't been asked to participate in most of them; they seemed to be more for the guests than the expectant mother. So far, he'd sat through a diaper-changing relay (executed by teams of three on plastic dolls), a bottle race (having guests suck milk out of bottles as fast as possible), and a blind taste-test of various baby foods (all of which looked absolutely disgusting). But there were still more to come.

"Ok!" the party's host, apparently the owner of the establishment, spoke up, clapping her hands together at the front of the cozy brick room, "Does everyone have their strings? We're going to play Guess the Tummy!"

Sam _really _didn't like the sound of that, but a general cry of excitement went up from the gathered participants, who he knew had been placing bets on everything from the sex of the baby to its weight to its date and time of birth. He was debating whether or not announcing that it was actually twins would be appropriate (or if doing so would just encourage further gambling) (and, on that note, since when did hippies gamble?).

"Tabby, honey," the host, a tall short-haired black woman of about fifty called brightly, "Come on up here! Don't be shy!"

Uncomfortably, awkwardly, Sam struggled to his feet and tried not to be embarrassed when he waddled forward and took his place at the woman's side.

Sam remembered that the woman's name was Iris Shepherd and that she was the adoptive mother of the seventeen-year-old delivery boy, Enzo Shepherd. She had three other adopted children, fifteen-year-old Frankie, eight-year-old Nadira, and four-year-old Parker. All the kids seemed well-behaved and very happy (even though Frankie stared at Sam almost constantly, shyly looking away and pretending to tune his guitar whenever he was caught). Iris herself seemed like a really nice person, even though she was responsible for inflicting the baby shower. And she made _fantastic_ pizza.

"Everybody come up and try your strings around Tabby's stomach!" Iris beamed, kneading Gus's shoulders and pushing Sam down into a new chair, "The person who guessed closest to the actually circumference wins a free small pizza!"

Sam gaped at the woman, getting more incensed by the second. What the fuck kind of fucked up game was that? Did people really do those sorts of things at baby showers? And he was just supposed to sit there and take it? The discomfort and dread he'd felt since realizing the situation he'd landed himself in seemed to double in an instant, fight-or-flight kicking in; Sam was partial to flight. He'd endured a lot thus far (including near constant belly rubs and bizarre name suggestions and inappropriate inquires about possible hemorrhoids and constipation), but no way was he letting a room full of strangers tie strings around his stomach... Gus's stomach... whatever. She certainly wouldn't have stood for any such thing, and it was the principle of the matter; Sam was _so_ done. If he'd had a gun, he would have chosen that moment to brandish it menacingly and tell everyone to _back the fuck off_.

But Gus didn't own a gun (which they were definitely going to have to remedy at some point). And the actual thing that happened at that moment was a lot... stranger. Sam got really, really angry and then suddenly really, really happy, the wave of emotion crashing over him without warning. It was warm and bright, enjoyable. Almost like getting some really good drugs pumped into his veins except without the goofiness and drowsiness Sam usually experienced during such an occurrence.

Sam tried to worry, but the worry got swept away along with the anger until the hunter just felt... _awesome_. Too high on happiness to be concerned or annoyed that people he didn't know were trying to guess how big around his borrowed stomach had gotten.

He knew that he really needed to talk to Gus and his brother; he knew how utterly fucked up the situation was (that it definitely wasn't _natural_),but he couldn't manage to actually care all that much. He smiled brilliantly as the first townsperson came forward, brandishing a long piece of string.

xxXxx

Letting the scalding water slide down his bare shoulders, Dean Winchester stood in the shower and tried once again to wrap his mind around the concept of being a father. Let alone a father of two.

A few weeks, at most, and Dean was going to be a father. He was going to have a little boy and a little girl. Dominick and Samuella. Dom and Sammy. Nick and Ella.

Despite being terrified right down to the core, Dean found himself actually smiling a bit as he imagined what they might look like... what it would feel like to hold them in his arms...

"Dean."

"Holy _fuck_!" the hunter squealed, jumping and slipping on the wet ceramic, flailing for a few breathless seconds before grabbing onto the shower curtain in an attempt to steady himself and only managing to rip it down with him on his way to the floor.

He groaned dizzily, taking stock of any potential injuries and thankfully finding just a few likely bruises to add to the day's growing collection. Dean opened his eyes and glared up at the stoic heavenly messenger standing over him.

"Dude," the hunter snarled, "Bathrooms are a _No Angel Zone_!"

Castiel's emotionless stare never wavered, those spooky blue eyes unblinking. "I apologize," he murmured flatly, not even a little apologetic, "But we have a serious problem."

Grunting as he untangled himself from the shower curtain, Dean snottily countered, "And by _we_ do you mean _you and the other Christian soldiers_ or _you, me, and my brother_?"

Frowning ever so slightly (like he understood the individual words but not the way they'd been strung together), Castiel replied, "Augusta Vaughn is missing."

Dean thought his molars might've cracked from how hard he ground them together. "I told you that months ago," he hissed furiously, finally standing and swaddling his lower half in a grayish towel, "You said you didn't know where she was."

Castiel got about as shifty-eyed as an angel could before cautiously correcting, "I said that I was unable to locate her."

Dean felt a headache coming on.

"She was attacked by demons shortly after you went to hell," the trenchcoated tinkerbell explained, "My superiors saved her and offered protection, but she was unwilling to cooperate."

The brief flicker of annoyance on Castiel's face was hard to miss, and Dean actually felt kind of proud of Gus for whatever she'd done to put it there; Dean knew from experience that the feat was a difficult one.

"Augusta is powerful but inexperienced," Castiel continued evenly, maybe a little embarrassed, "We... underestimated her. She managed to slip away and hide, but we had a garrison closing in on her energy signature until it vanished this morning. If the demons found her first-" Frowning rather suddenly, the angel trailed off and tilted his head a bit, as if listening intently to the hum of the fluorescent light bulbs overhead.

"She's here," he finally observed, just a cold statement of fact.

Struggling to keep his voice at a reasonable level, Dean snarled, "When were you planning on telling me I was going to be a father?!"

Blankly, Castiel replied, "My superiors thought it was best for you not to know."

"Fuck you and your superiors!" Dean bellowed, almost shaking he was so angry, "You bastards had _no right_-"

"That is unimportant," Castiel interrupted, "I must see her. She must be kept safe."

"You mean my kids must be kept safe," Dean challenged nastily, "You guys got some master plan in mind for them, too?"

The angel stared, completely motionless except to answer, "Everyone has a destiny, Dean."

"Not them," Dean answered, feeling like he could crawl out of his own skin at any second, "You stay away from my kids! They are _not_ going to be any part of this war! They're going to have a chance to be free of all this bullshit!"

He actually surprised himself with the sudden decision not to let his kids have anything to do with the supernatural. Ever. Sure, they'd be taught how to defend themselves against threats that might pop up (and he guessed that Gus would probably impart some of her hippie earth-child brand of magic), but Nick and Ella would have relatively normal lives otherwise. Good lives. His daughter could take ballet, and his son could join little league. They could get a dog, and he'd send them both to college and everything, if they wanted... he was going to have to start hustling a lot more pool...

"Your children are special, just like you are," Castiel argued tersely, "You can't change that."

And then the angel was gone but not really because Dean rushed back into the motel room and found him standing over Sam. The look on Castiel's face was actually pretty priceless, and Dean filed it away for the next time he needed a good laugh.

xxXxx

Sam had to wonder what kind of self-respecting fifteen-year-old boy developed a crush on a pregnant woman in her thirties. Because, from the way he kept staring, from the slow, soulful song he'd written and performed for her, Frankie Shepherd quite clearly had a massive crush on Gus.

He seemed like a nice kid, soft-spoken and shy, baby-faced and small for his age. Phenomenal on the guitar. His long, tight cornrows had black and white beads tied to the ends and clicked as he walked, making it very easy for Sam to track the boy as he circled Gus, never straying far.

Sam probably would've been extremely annoyed by the attention if he hadn't felt so awesome. He was just unable to conjure any negative emotions. And he would've been worried about _that_ if he'd been able to.

"Tabby!" smiling eight-year-old Nadira Shepherd (Frankie and Enzo's adopted sister) greeted brightly, dragging her tiny four-year-old brother Parker along beside her. She pulled up short in front of Sam, dark-cocoa face erupting with dimples and a front-toothless grin. The girl held out a handful of discarded white string from the Guess the Tummy game (which had been won by an ancient old woman who owned a fabric store). "Parker wants a bracelet, too," Nadira proclaimed.

"Ok," Sam replied, confused as to what he was supposed to do about that.

The little boy had his thumb stuck in his mouth but still tried to talk around it, reverently petting the blue string wrapped several times and tied snugly around his sister's slim wrist. "Wan' one wike Dira's," he mumbled, "Pwease." Kid was just about the cutest thing ever, big green eyes and porcelain cheeks and gravity-defying red hair, all in a chubby pint-sized package.

"So will you make him one, too?" Nadira questioned eagerly, pushing the string into Gus's hands.

"Sure," Sam agreed. He started to try, tongue stuck out and eyes squinted in concentration as he fought to get Gus's tiny hands to cooperate with looping and tying the string.

"_Nooo_!" Nadira complained, pouting and tugging on Gus's t-shirt, "Like before!"

"What did I do before?" Sam chuckled, finding it hard to be too concerned.

Petulantly rolling her huge dark eyes, Nadira tucked the string up into Gus's palm, curling the woman's thin fingers around it. She held Gus's arm still and then grabbed Parker's wrist, placing the boy's little hand on top of Gus's closed fist. "Like this, remember?" Nadira prompted, coal-black pigtails swaying energetically, "And then you said to close my eyes and think of all the people who love me and who I love and to concentrate real hard on how much they love me and I love them. Remember?"

Sam nodded, clearing his throat and prompting, "Ok, well, you heard your sister, Parker. Get to it."

The little boy nodded and eagerly squeezed his eyes shut, whole freckled face scrunching up as he concentrated.

"You closed your eyes, too," Nadira whispered loudly, "And you hummed. Not a song, just humming."

Still skeptical, wondering what the hell Gus had been doing with these kids, Sam obliged, shutting his eyes and humming aimlessly, pretending to concentrate. Basically, playing along and putting on a show.

Until Gus's hand started to feel hot. Not uncomfortably but noticeably. Her manicured nail beds getting kind of... tingly. Just a little at first, a vague itch that rapidly spread and encompassed her whole hand, shooting a jet of warmth straight up the inside of her wrist before subsiding entirely.

Parker gasped and stepped back, eyes wide.

Sam opened Gus's fist and found that the white string was glowing white hot, rapidly fading to a warm, cheerful yellow.

If it hadn't been for the unexplained happiness that still had a hold of him, Sam probably would've freaked out because he was pretty sure he'd just done magic.

He probably would've freaked out worse when he felt that weird pressure building behind his eardrums again and heard a voice murmuring inside his head.

_Mmm... coconut..._

Whipping around, he found Frankie Shepherd behind him, leaning across the wooden picnic table and wide-eyed at having been caught right in the middle of sniffing Gus's hair.

_Oh no_, Sam heard, even though the teenager's thin lips weren't moving at all, hanging just a little bit slack on Frankie's horrified face, _Now she's going to think I'm even more of a freak! Stupid! Stupid! Why'd you have to get caught?!_

The kid took off.

Sam would've chased him, demanded to know what the fuck had just happened, but, honestly, he wouldn't have been able to keep up in a million years. And Nadira and Parker were tugging on Gus's t-shirt, apparently oblivious to their older brother's stalker-like behavior as they excitedly asked _Tabby_ to tie the newly color-changed string onto Parker's wrist.

Sam did so as quickly as possible, knowing that he really, _really_ needed to call Dean.

xxXxx

"Soul swap," Cas repeated, addressing Dean but still not taking his eyes off Sam's sleeping form, "From half a country away?"

"Bingo," Dean replied. He took another slug from his bottle of Jack and took a seat on the edge of the other bed. Even though he knew it was probably futile (because nothing in his life ever went that easily), the hunter suggested, "How 'bout you just angel 'em back into their own skins, and we can all call it a night?"

Castiel frowned and reported, "Removing a soul from a human body is complex. Putting one back is even more so. Two at a time is impossible on my own. At least not without killing one of them."

Shaking his head, Dean grumbled, "Of course... well, do you have any idea what could've caused it?"

"None," the angel murmured, staring in utter fascination, "I will consult my brothers-"

"No," Dean interrupted, "Leave them out of it. Just give us a chance to fix this on our own first." At the angel's brief grimace, Dean somberly added, "You owe me one after Alistair."

Castiel finally turned his frown onto Dean, looked across at him in cold calculation. After several breathless moments, he nodded very slightly and declared, "I can give you until the birth, but only if you tell me where her body is."

Dean didn't answer, not right away. Cas might have made some big steps, but he was still pretty into that whole blind obedience thing; his allegiances were still elsewhere.

"I'll bring her to you," the angel interrupted, "She's not safe on her own."

"She managed to hide pretty damn well so far," Dean argued (though it was pretty much just for show; he _really_ wanted what was being offered).

Shaking his head, Castiel said, "She's been using magic to keep herself hidden. Her body can still do magic, but without her soul to direct it, the defenses will fade. As soon as that happens, Heaven and hell will race to claim her."

Dean swallowed hard. He knew he didn't have much of a choice. He said, "Hurry."

xxxxxxxxxx

So the brothers will be reunited shortly. Exciting. Review, please and thanks :)


	10. Snuggling

Part 10 - Snuggling

It took Sam forever and a fucking day to extricate himself from his baby shower... well, Gus's baby shower... well, Tabby's baby shower... whatever! The point was that everyone was way too damn nice, neighborly bordering on nosy, and Sam had to beg out with a full bladder just to be left alone for the few minutes it would take to put a call in to Dean.

Locked in the small bathroom at _Pizza and Harmony_, Sam sank down on the toilet (because he actually did have to pee, again) and tried to think of how he would explain the situation to his brother. He wasn't sure whether to lead with the involuntary happiness, the inadvertent magic, or the intermittent telepathy...

But before he could make that decision or even finish on the toilet, someone was already pounding on the door. "Tabby!" that someone, Sam thought probably Enzo, shouted through the thin wood, "Mom wants you to open presents! C'mon!"

Opening presents. At his baby shower. Sitting down to pee.

Sam hated his life. He couldn't stop smiling and still thought he might burst out crying at any second.

He decided that the conversation with Dean would probably take a lot longer than he had at the moment and put it off for later. He finished up and waddled back out the door.

Castiel was waiting stoically in the narrow hallway.

Sam felt tears of relief well up in his eyes. Cursing Gus's hormones, he threw her tiny arms around the angel. "Thank you!" he found himself wailing joyfully, "Thankyouthankyou_thankyou_!

Awkward and rigid, Cas patted Gus's slim shoulders and carefully murmured, "You're welcome, Sam."

"You're taking me to Dean, right?" Sam sniffled, quickly getting a hold of himself as he felt yet another wave of absurd, uncontrollable happiness crash over Gus's bloated body. Grinning serenely up at the angel, the displaced hunter wiped his borrowed eyes and croaked, "I could really use Dean right now."

"I'm taking you to Dean," Castiel agreed. He paused for a brief moment before adding, "Do you want to say goodbye to the people out there? They love Augusta very much."

Sam swallowed hard. He didn't want to say goodbye to them. He wanted to _leave_, that fucking second. He wanted his brother and a whole gallon of vanilla ice cream with jalapenos on top. He wanted someone to rub his feet.

But Gus loved the people from the town, too, and Sam wasn't sure if she'd forgive him if he let Cas vanish her away without a word.

He thought of a decent cover story, motioning for Castiel to follow him as he waddled back out into the main room.

It was just as crowded and noisy as when he left it; Sam had to fight his way through dozens of fond belly rubs before finally finding the owner, Iris Shepherd, and asking to talk with her in private.

"Honey, is everything ok?" the fifty-something black woman inquired, concerned, warily eyeing Castiel as he stood silently surveying the scene. She shut the door to the stock room with a quiet _click_.

Offering a watery smile, Sam softly explained, "I have to go."

"Go?" Iris repeated, nervous hands fluttering, smoothing back Gus's frizzy blonde curls, "What's happened?"

Sam leaned in very close, sending a pointed look at Cas and explaining, "Witness Protection thinks my location might've been compromised."

Iris's dark eyes went wide, her plump mouth falling open in a shocked O. "My goodness," she whispered, looking Castiel up and down with a new measure of grudging respect, "I-I had no idea... we're not in any danger here, are we?"

"No," Sam answered swiftly, grinning bravely, "They don't even know if the threat holds any weight, but they want to keep me in a safe house until they can be sure. Hopefully I'll be back soon." Hopefully Gus could come back; putting aside the overly nice inhabitants, it really was a beautiful little town, and Sam suspected that Gus really was genuinely happy there. Well, as much as she was capable; the woman definitely had some issues.

"I hope so, too," Iris replied, tearing up a bit, tugging Gus's body into a careful hug, "Don't you worry about a thing. I'll have Enzo keep an eye on your place... and I'll think of something to tell everyone. I-I'll say you had a family emergency. Ok?"

Sam nodded, starting to tear up again. Damnit, why did the hormones have to choose then to go haywire, especially after they'd been so relatively calm during the rest of his ordeal? Where had that inexplicable happiness gone? Had he overwhelmed it with his sudden guilt at interrupting Gus's picturesque life? "Thanks for everything," Sam murmured.

Iris pulled back and smiled sadly, brushing the wetness off of Gus's cheeks and stating, "No trouble at all, sweetheart. You just take care of yourself and the little miracle. Come back to us as soon as you can." After one more lingering hug, Iris chuckled, "You better know let us know how everything turns out or I might have a riot on my hands with all those bets."

Sam offered a crooked grin, finding himself stating, "It's twins. A boy and a girl."

Beaming, Iris replied, "Use the door through the kitchen, darling, or you'll never get out of here." With one last sad glance, Iris was gone. She left all the doors on their escape route unlocked.

Striding (waddling) purposefully toward the exit, turning to Castiel, Sam resolutely declared, "We have to stop by Gus's place first. Last time something like this happened, she ended up stranded at Bobby's with no money or ID or clothes. She wasn't too happy about it. And she and Dean nearly killed each other on the ride back to her house..."

xxXxx

Even though he knew he should get some sleep, Dean found himself pacing the motel room, anxiously waiting for Cas to return with Sam. Sam's soul and Gus's body. Whatever.

His eyes slid over his brother's sleeping form, and the hunter had to smother a laugh as he observed the Sasquatch snuggling the extra pillow against his broad chest. Gus did that in her sleep. And Dean had always kind of thought it was cute. She was a cranky bitch during the day but a total snuggler at night, unable to hide her inner softie.

Dean had some more fun with the cameraphone. Just to pass the time...

He remained surprisingly calm when Castiel appeared with Gus's body and Sam's soul in tow.

"Whoa," Sam gasped, spindly knees giving out.

Castiel apparently anticipated the reaction and guided Gus's body down onto the empty bed. He set down a big purple duffle bag and then turned to Dean. Expressionless, the angel ordered, "Hurry."

And then he was gone.

Dean had expected to want to rip his brother a new one, at the very least to want to laugh hysterically and tease mercilessly about the situation that the dumb kid had landed himself in.

But... all Dean could do was stare at Gus's body, at the way her petite form had swelled, heavy with his children, her soft, luscious tits and hips and ass and stomach, that healthy glow...

Sam stared back, clearly wary. "Dean," he drawled, "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Shaking himself roughly, reminding himself it that was his brother in there, Dean replied, "I just... she's... _beautiful_..."

Gus's pale cheeks flared bright red.

"Dude," Dean gaped, licking his lips and unconsciously stalking closer, "Are you _blushing_?"

Pretty porcelain doll face twisting angrily (but not entirely unbecomingly), Sam answered, "You're making me very uncomfortable right now."

"Sorry," Dean murmured. He didn't really mean it though and soon found himself on one knee (the unbruised one) in front of the woman and once again staring in awe. Mesmerized. His hands literally _itched_ to touch her engorged stomach, to feel the new life growing inside...

Sam continued to frown at him, squirming and complaining, "Seriously. _Stop_."

Ignoring his bitchy baby brother, Dean gazed down at Gus's bulging midsection and inquired, "Do they kick?"

"Almost constantly," the disembodied hunter grumbled.

Dean looked pleadingly over the mound of distended flesh, sincerely hoping that Sam wouldn't make him beg.

Sam glared for a few more moments before settling for a long suffering sigh, huffing frizzy blonde curls away from Gus's wide blue eyes. "I want ice cream," he demanded crossly, "And my own bed."

"Sure," Dean eagerly agreed, not waiting for any further invitation. He helped Sam wrestle Gus's body out of her puffy white coat and then reverently peeled up the tacky, oversized Mickey Mouse t-shirt he found beneath. Dean placed both his hands on the bare skin of Gus's stomach, thumbs framing the tiny bump of bellybutton. His breath caught when he felt the quiver of strong movement inside, the volley of punches and kicks. "Wow," he whispered, already so suddenly, sight-unseen in love that he almost didn't know how to handle it.

Sam actually let Dean enjoy himself for nearly five whole minutes before interrupting. "Dean," he grumbled, "We have to talk. There is something really weird going on."

Dean didn't answer, concentrating on the flutters near his right pinky and left lifeline.

Which only pissed Sam off. "Dean!" he snarled, giving his brother a light shove (probably the hardest one he could conjure with those teeny arms, hahahaha), "Come on, man! I'm serious!"

"You're inhabiting my baby-mama," Dean murmured delightedly, "Things don't get much weirder."

"I can do magic!" Sam ranted, gesturing wildly, "And I think I can read minds! And every time I start freaking out or getting pissed off, I can't stop being happy! Like right now! I want to scream and punch you in the face, but I can already feel this, like... giddiness coming back to stop me!"

Chuckling, Dean felt another round of kicks against his palms and teased, "You're _giddy_? Are you sure it's not hormones?"

Sam grabbed his brother roughly by the hair and forced him to look up. "It's not _hormones_!" the giddily irate pregnant lady-man shouted in his brother's face, "Now _focus_! Did Gus say anything about this happening to her?"

"No," Dean answered. He grinned and reported, "Their names are gonna be Dominick and Samuella. What do you think of those? Nice, right? I figure we'll probably end up calling them Nick and Ella, or Dom and Sammy, or some combination. And they're not allowed to hunt, ok? Not ever."

(He wasn't trying to be dismissive of his brother's meltdown, but... well... ya, he just didn't care about anything at that moment other than his kids' kicking. His impending fatherhood was starting to feel really real, and he was finding that he really liked it.)

Rolling Gus's wide blue eyes, finally releasing Dean's hair with a disgusted grunt, Sam muttered, "If you're not going to be helpful, I'll just wake Gus."

Dean snorted, "Ya, good luck with that."

"Meaning?" Sam challenged, squirming but unable to get free as Dean pressed his ear to Gus's stomach.

"Meaning she got a little too friendly with Comrade Stoli at dinner," Dean answered serenely, "I doubt a banshee would get her up."

"Dean!" Sam complained, shoving him away, making him lose his balance and fall on his poor bruised ass, "You let her get me drunk?! Why didn't you stop her?!"

With a gloomy frown, Dean countered, "Hey, man, I tried! I just told her to slow down, and the crazy witch nearly punted my kneecap across the room! With your freakish strength and her freakish temper, I was lucky to make it out alive!"

"Argh!" Sam growled, all pissy and pregnant... and then suddenly smiling brightly... sobbing... "Dean," he warbled, "I don't like this!"

Whoa. Dean had heard pregnant-lady emotions were all over the place, but that was kind of ridiculous. He was developing whiplash from the split-second shifts. "Uh..." the bewildered hunter gaped, carefully approaching to sit beside his brother, "It'll be ok. Don't worry. We'll figure everything out and have you back in your own body in no time."

Sam continued to blubber, the disturbing grin never leaving Gus's pretty face.

Dean put an awkward arm around the woman's slight shoulders, intending on just giving a few comforting pats and instead suddenly getting the whole pregnant body flung against and wrapped around his chest. "Aw, c'mon, Sammy," he sighed, no heat at all in his voice as he let his brother bawl.

It was going to be a _long_ night.

xxxxxxxxxx

Aw, poor Sammy. I didn't mean to make him cry... well, that's not true. W/e. Reviews are love :)


	11. Sewing

Part 11 - Sewing

Dean woke with Sam's body draped tightly around his own and sighed heavily, taking a brief moment to collect his bearings and battle down his discomfort. Chick-flick moments aside, he wasn't particularly squeamish about physical contact. However, he usually didn't end up with a pool of someone else's saliva congealing in the dip of his throat or nothing but worn boxers between his right thigh and his brother's junk.

Ugh.

Cursing Gus's unconscious clinginess (as well as Sam's tendency to drool, which hadn't gone anywhere with the swap), Dean carefully fought his way out of the extra-long limbs and ridiculous grip. He glared at her rightful body and Sam's soul inside it, also cursing his brother's demand for his own bed. Sam was currently the smallest and yet got the most space; how was that even remotely fair?

(Of course, would it have been any better sharing a bed with his brother's soul inside the body of his pregnant baby-mama? Especially when Dean likely wouldn't be able to resist folding that luscious body into his own arms... Hmmm. Interesting dilemma...)

With a brief stumble over some discarded clothing, wincing as his sore knee throbbed, Dean made it to the bathroom and, after checking thoroughly for angels, made his way through a morning hygiene routine.

By the time he wandered back into the main room (dressed and only slightly groggy from his own nightcap (or five)), Dean found that Sam was awake and had Gus's feet on the floor. He was struggling without success to push her round body up out of the bed. He looked frustrated and about three seconds for yet another crying jag. Having his little brother (or anyone else, for that matter) fall asleep bawling in his arms was not something Dean particularly enjoyed, and he wanted to avoid a repeat performance if at all possible.

"Easy," the blonde soothed, giving his brother a hand up and hovering while he wobbled and regained equilibrium.

With a deep, shuddering sigh, Sam kept his gaze down and answered, "Thanks. And... sorry."

"Don't worry about it," Dean replied, hovering nervously as Sam waddled toward the bathroom. The waddle. Fuck, Dean couldn't believe how hot the waddle was... He couldn't believe he was even having that thought, watching the rhythmic ripple of plump pregnant ass as he did so. "I guess I'm not really a father until I deal with a few pre-natal meltdowns," he said, "Dad told me once that Mom threw a clock radio at his head when she was carrying me, so I'm still getting off pretty easy."

Sam chuckled lightly, amused. But that didn't last long. He shoved Dean away when the older hunter attempted to follow him into the bathroom. "I got things handled from here, thanks," Sam insisted, pulling a strangely familiar bitch-face before slamming the door.

The noise had Gus snorting awake and then, seconds later, moaning in pain. "Oh, god," she complained gruffly, "What the _fuck_?"

"Morning, sunshine," Dean quipped, fetching a bottle of water and a bottle of pills.

"I hate you," the woman-within-the-man spat weakly, holding Sam's head between his meaty hands, "You and your damn brother... _ow_... Why the hell'd you let me drink so much?"

"_Let_ _you_?" Dean scoffed, "Princess, I tried to _stop you_, and you _kicked me_. Really fucking _hard_, I might add. My knee is the size of a grapefruit!"

"Good," Gus snapped. She then retreated back into her gangly ball of agony and wasn't at all coherent for the whole next hour while Dean played the unwilling nursemaid and packed up the car.

In fact, Gus only spoke after several glasses of water and a lot of ibuprofen. And then it was only to give a gravely shout of, "What the fuck am I doin here?... and what the fuck am I _wearin_?"

"Uh, Sam messed up the scrying spell and you guys swapped souls, remember?" Dean answered. He frowned and inspected the t-shirt and boxers currently clinging to his brother's muscular frame, adding, "And that's what Sam usually wears to bed. Sorry, we don't carry around nighties in Sasquatch size." Though that might be hilarious for the future...

Gus slapped Sam's hand down over his eyes, groaning and gesturing wildly with the other arm. "Not _Sam-me_!" she argued, "_ME-me_! I am _not_ walkin around dressed like that!"

Trying his best to head off yet _another_ obstacle between them and the Impala's welcoming interior, Dean glanced in the direction of the wild gesturing and found Sam sprawled on the other bed (somewhat resembling a beached whale in his helpless, bloated inertia). Dean didn't see anything wrong with the way Sam had dressed his current self: the same baggy red Mickey Mouse t-shirt he'd arrived in and a pair of equally baggy gray sweat pants, presumably from the big purple duffle he'd brought along.

But Gus shrieked pissily, nearly taking a header straight into the TV when she stood too fast and overbalanced. She shook Dean off as soon as he righted her, stomping over toward Sam and standing over him with his hands on his hips...

(Dean decided, for the sake of sanity and grammatical ease, to begin referring to body parts based on whose soul currently inhabited the meat suit in question. Yes, in fact, that would be the new default rule for situations such as that one; he deemed the concept "Gus's Law" and then moved on.)

So Gus stood over Sam with her hands on her hips, towering impressively while Dean's brother cowered and hugged his bulbous pregnant belly. "_Please_ tell me you at least got on a bra," Gus demanded.

Sam stared up at her with wide, guilty blue eyes, fidgeting with the bedspread and admitting, "Um... no. I've never really... put one _on_ before. Let alone on _myself_... a-and your boo- er... breasts. They... they're really _sore_."

_Don't laugh, don't laugh, don't laugh,_ Dean told himself, nearly biting through his bottom lip.

"Welcome to the miracle of life," Gus snarled. She suddenly swayed dizzily and then turned a bit green, spinning and sprinting full tilt toward the bathroom.

Dean ran after but was too late to prevent her from slamming headfirst into the toilet tank in the process of shoving her face into the bowl, cracking the tank in half right down the middle. Three things happened all at once: the toilet tank began gushing water, the top of Gus's head began spurting blood, and the disembodied beauty queen's stomach began violently emptying its meager contents between pained, horrified screams.

Surveying the destruction, wincing at each increasingly conspicuous shriek and increasingly fierce retch, Dean decided that an early (i.e. immediate) checkout might be best...

xxXxx

Sam leaned over Dean's shoulder and surveyed the man's handiwork, still kind of fascinated by watching the top of his own head being sewn up. Well, he felt horrible about it, of course, but still... usually he wasn't conscious or cognizant enough to appreciate the tender care his brother put into every tiny, expert stitch.

"You're supposed to be standing guard," Dean reminded him, entirely focused on the wound and on Gus's sluggish breathing (she'd been kind of hysterical as they tried to bundle her into the Impala (though thankfully had ceased puking), and it had taken a double dose of morphine just to calm her enough to prevent a scene in the parking lot of the motel; about a mile away from the secluded, deserted rest stop where they had finally stopped, Gus had blearily slurred, "hate y'both," and then passed out cold).

"Right," Sam agreed, reluctantly exiting the filthy men's room and leaning up against the wall just outside it. He puffed out a weary breath, drawing his puffy white coat in tighter around his tiny frame. He should've been disturbed that he'd started referring to Gus's body as if it belonged to him, but, he guessed, for the time being it kind of did. Besides, divorcing himself from the situation wasn't really helping anymore, not after crying himself to sleep in Dean's arms the night before (although he still felt entirely justified in blaming that one on Gus's hormones and the freaky powers she seemed to be developing (and on that note, _what the fuck_?)).

Sam was distracted from his shame and worry by a beige minivan pulling into the parking lot and swinging into a spot a few down from the Impala. A herd of small children immediately stampeded out, laughing and running and shoving; Sam counted six of them, four boys and two girls, none older than about ten and the youngest probably pre-school age. And they looked way too similar to be anything but siblings, all brown-haired and blue eyed and freckled and slim. They beelined for the facilities, the oldest boy pulling up short and stopping the others at the sight of the out-of-order sign taped to the men's room door (courtesy of the honorable Dr. Dean Winchester).

"Wha's it say, Thomas?" the smallest boy demanded, tugging insistently on the skinny brunette's coat sleeve.

Thomas (apparently) frowned and reported, "It says the bathroom's broken! MOMMY!"

Sam hoped his own nephew's voice wouldn't be quite so grating and shrill.

"Don't shout, sweetheart," the childrens' mother replied, striding along purposefully with one hand situated low on her back and the other low on her own pregnant bump of a stomach, "Just use the ladies' room. No one will care."

Huffing, Thomas answered, "_Fine_." He dragged the other boys along in through the other door and was immediately met by laughter and jeers from the two girls.

The older woman leaned up against the wall beside Sam, sighing heavily and blowing her dark bangs out of her light eyes. She smiled sideways, chuckling, "I hate road trips."

"With that many kids in the car, I can see why," Sam responded politely, "Are they all yours?"

"Oh ya," the woman laughed, patting her belly, "Six and one more on the way in about four months." She nodded toward Sam's stomach and asked, "When're you due?"

"Two weeks," Sam reported, battling down dread as he just tried to engage in a (somewhat) normal conversation, "Twins."

"Congratulations," the woman beamed, "My third and fourth are twins, and I swear they wrestled around in there nearly the entire time. They're thick as thieves now though, can hardly find one without the other... I'm Rebecca, by the way."

"Sam," Sam stated reflexively, for once appreciating the unisexuality of his name.

Grinning brilliantly, Rebecca chirped, "Pleased to meet you."

The crowd of kids came crashing back out of the bathroom and streaked straight for the open area of snowy lawn beside the parking lot, shouting and cackling and rolling around.

Rebecca groaned, pushing herself up off the wall and stating, "Well, have a nice trip. And good luck. You're gonna need it." She stalked off after her children, calling, "Thomas! Grace! Sophia! Quentin! Liam! James! In the car! Right now! Brush all the snow off yourselves first, or I'll be picking the music for the whole next state!"

The large family was gone within ten minutes (after a lot of whining and bickering and clicking of car seat and booster chair buckles). And then Sam was alone again, left to ponder the enigma that was a normal life.

xxXxx

What should've been a nine-hour trip was actually more like eleven after the frequent pit stops Sam needed with his shrunken bladder and strange food cravings. Dean didn't complain. Like _at all_. And Sam started wishing for the unexplained telepathy to actually kick in again; it would've been _very _useful to know what was going on in his brother's head.

Bobby's snowy junkyard finally unfolded before them like a picturesque winter wonderland, complete even with the occasional small woodland creature frolicking along the roadside as the Impala glided down on the deserted track. Sam couldn't believe how glad he was to see the old place, doing his absolute best to resist the urge to fling himself into Bobby's arms when the mechanic sidled up beside the vehicle and opened the shotgun door.

"Evenin, miss," Bobby deadpanned, the corners of his mouth actually twitching as he quite transparently fought down yet another laughing jag, "I daresay you are positively glowin."

Sam began to rethink his fond feelings for the old man, grumbling, "Tease me after I pee." He graciously accepted Bobby's help up when it was offered, stood and wobbled until finding some semblance of balance. The creatures inside him did a few barrel rolls and then resumed their usual restless but indistinct squirming.

"Little help?" Dean called, struggling to pull Gus from the back seat.

She'd been in and out of consciousness the whole ride, probably concussed, definitely loopy from the morphine (but at least there hadn't been any more Linda Blair impressions). When she hadn't been sleeping or cursing the name Winchester or nagging Sam about wearing a bra, she'd actually been pretty entertaining, at one point going on a long rant about how SpongeBob SquarePants was a conspiracy meant to collectively lower the intelligence of an entire generation of children, thus making them more susceptible to the nonsensical shrillness of traditional marketing tactics; the heated diatribe only ended when Gus zonked out mid sentence, and she had no recollection of the tirade upon waking several hundred miles down the road.

And it seemed as though eleven hours jammed tightly in the Impala had done little to lessen the effects of either the head injury or the narcotics.

"Gidoffame," she slurred tiredly, pouting and shoving at Dean's face as he held her upright, "Gidoff! Fuckin smurf!"

"You're the smurf," Dean muttered angrily. He hissed in pain when Gus's knee knocked against his own, coming very close to losing his grip on the Sasquatch body.

Fortunately, that was when Bobby swooped in with the assist, situating himself on Gus's right side and throwing one of her long arms around his own shoulders.

She grinned at him and sighed, "I am _sooooo_ glad to see you! Tweedle Dumb 'n Tweedle Too Fuckin Stupid to Live turned me into a _dude_!"

"I noticed," Bobby agreed, still stifling a flood of laughter.

Huffing, limping along on Gus's left side, Dean argued, "_I_ didn't do anything."

Apparently choosing to ignore the oldest Winchester's justifiable irritation, Bobby asked, "How's your head, sweetheart?"

"Hurts," Gus complained sulkily.

"You'll feel better once we get you settled," Bobby insisted sagely. He and Dean collectively hauled Gus a few more stumbling steps before the mechanic brightly inquired, "Who's hungry?"

"I am!" Sam found himself loudly and enthusiastically proclaiming.

His three companions stared at him in everything from astonishment to annoyance, and Sam felt yet another horribly embarrassing blush creeping up onto his pale, pretty cheeks.

xxxxxxxxxx

The sad thing is that I actually saw that running-headfirst-into-a-toilet-tank thing actually happen to a drunk guy at a party, right down to the gory details. Haha. Good times.

Reviews are love :)


	12. Dressing

Part 12 - Dressing

Dean stumbled down to breakfast to find Bobby camped out at the kitchen table, intently examining the equipment from Sam's botched scrying ritual. Though the map was somewhat worse for wear (having been trampled and mostly shredded in the course of Gus's initial post-swap freakout), the rest of the odds and ends had made the journey entirely intact.

Before they had all turned in for an early night, Bobby had professed that he didn't see anything unusual about the map, candles, herbs, or crystal. So the fact that the man was up early with the assorted paraphernalia and wearing latex gloves to boot (as the saying usually goes) was slightly worrisome.

"Do I even want to know?" Dean inquired gruffly, going straight for the coffee machine and sending up a brief prayer to his personal caffeine deity when he found the pot full, fresh, and hot (or, as Dean liked to think of it, the Holy Trinity) (and, yes, he had been thoroughly enjoying his sacrilege lately, thanks for asking).

Grunting, Bobby sat back and rolled his shoulders, tugged his cap down over his tired eyes. "Can't put my finger on it," he murmured, obviously frustrated, "But somethin's off with this junk. Kept me up all damn night."

Because he had to, Dean warned, "All work and no play makes Bobby a dull boy."

The older hunter scoffed impatiently and made his own trip to worship at the altar of St. Folgers.

For awhile, the two men enjoyed a companionable silence, slurping coffee and squinting in the pale morning light as it glittered off the snowy yard and through the grimy windows.

Gus arrived next, still stumbling over her too-long limbs as she snagged Dean's mug right out of his hands. She gulped the remaining liquid with a pleased moan, then flopped down at the table and rested her head on her crossed arms.

"Feelin better?" Bobby questioned kindly.

Gus's grumbled reply was entirely unintelligible.

Dean inspected her stitches until she whined shrilly and swatted his hands away, sitting up and glaring, snarling, "Bad enough I got a damn head injury without you pokin at it all the time."

"Excuse me for caring," Dean countered, rolling his eyes, pouring a fresh cup of coffee before asking, "Sam up?"

Gus said, "Nah. But on that subject, how about a little support on the bra issue? I'd prefer not to swap back to a set of saggy tits."

Snorting, Dean agreed, "I'll do what I can."

xxXxx

When the subject came up, Sam did his best to compromise, ushering Gus out of earshot of his brother and offering to wear panties instead of a bra.

Of course, that just made Gus laugh, wincing as the action apparently caused her head to hurt. Momentary amusement swept away by pain, she growled, "I don't give a damn whether or not you wear panties. _I _don't wear panties half the time. But I _always_ wear a bra. That's why my tits are still nice and perky, in case you haven't noticed."

Indeed, Sam had inherited himself a truly nice (albeit engorged and sore) pair of breasts.

But he didn't really want to think about that too much (at all, please, god, _no_); he just wanted to get out of wearing a bra. "A few days won't make a difference," he argued, rubbing his swollen belly in an effort to calm the two creatures inside. And, because he'd been wary to bring it up before (when Gus was so altered on blunt-force trauma and prescription drugs), Sam hastily added, "How about we talk about what's been going on with you?"

(It was a blatant yet entirely necessary subject change that Sam felt no shame in.)

"_Goin on_?" Gus demanded, "You mean _aside_ from the involuntary gender reassignment?"

Sam blushed heatedly and wondered if Gus's shamelessness had arisen in an effort to avoid such obvious shows of embarrassment. "I mean the, uh, telepathy," he corrected meekly, "And the episodes of unexplained happiness. And doing magic for small children."

Gus scowled at him, took him by the arm and shuffled him upstairs, closing them inside Sam and Dean's usual bedroom before snarling, "You can't tell Dean."

Nervously chewing on his bottom lip, Sam murmured, "I might've already told him."

"Argh!" she complained, stomping her foot petulantly as Sam marveled at the giant-sized tantrum. After a deep, calming breath, Gus carefully explained, "It's really not a big deal."

"Really?" Sam deadpanned.

With yet another scowl, Gus admitted, "The magic is just me. I been gettin better at it, even before I got pregnant. Awhile back, I figured out that I didn't need spells for a lot of things, that I could just concentrate real hard on what I wanted, and it would work out. Nothin too big yet, but I was makin charms for the kids. Just good-luck kinda stuff, channelin all the love they have around em. Little kids are always swimmin in love, and it's... protective, you know? You probably pulled it off through, like, magic muscle memory or somethin."

"Ok," Sam cautiously agreed, still wary but unable to quibble over the least of his various concerns.

Gus narrowed her eyes at him, snapping, "I have a theory about the rest, but you only get it if you put on the bra. And let me fix my hair. It looks awful."

Sam sighed, nodding as his curiosity almost immediately won out over his manhood (which was a slightly worrisome realization in itself).

"Alright," Gus said with a wicked smirk, digging through the purple duffle full of her clothing and toiletries and assorted possessions, "Shirt off, arms forward."

Closing his eyes, Sam did as he was told and struggled not to flinch away when he felt Gus slide the straps of the bra up to the crooks of his elbows. She circled around behind him, tugging the hook parts backwards until the cups nestled snuggly against Sam's generous chest. With a deft clip, the hooks had effectively locked Sam into the ridiculous device. He squirmed against the alien sensation, telling himself (half hysterically) to think of it as a holster... a _lacy _holster...

_Oh god... _Sam moaned internally, _This isn't happening..._

"Much better," Gus beamed, stuffing a new shirt into Sam's hands. It wasn't the baggy Mickey Mouse one he'd been wearing for the last two days but rather a large, billowy plain blue one with long, loose sleeves and a V-neck. It probably would've reached Sam's knees were his swollen stomach not in the way.

He _hated_ being short.

Gus made Sam settle on the bed and then attacked his hair with a brush and a bottle of leave-in conditioner, talking as she gently worked through a few days of tangles. "You know how you got all kinda psychic mojo happenin?" she began, "And how Dean was telepathic, at least as a little kid?"

"Uh huh," Sam agreed, remembering how strange it was having Dean turned into a mind-reading toddler.

"Well," Gus went on, "Did you ever stop to think that those sorts of powers showin up like that in two outta two brothers wasn't exactly a coincidence? That it might be genetic?"

Sam caught up in an instant. "You're saying that the babies inherited _psychic powers_ from Dean?"

"Why not?" Gus answered with a light shrug, "It actually makes a lot more sense now that I know there's two of em in there. One telepath and one empath. Pretty damn strong ones if their manifestin already, though that might just be cuz they got some magic from me on top of all that, or because the magic in my body is ampin up their powers... either way."

Sam stared, still desperately not wanting to believe.

"Anyways," Gus continued, "I didn't suspect anything at first. After the whole situation with the demons, I got really depressed and paranoid and stayed that way for over a month. Then I woke up one mornin, and... I dunno. Things didn't feel quite as bleak. I could walk around outside without thinkin everyone was after me. Not because I started gettin over bein so scared, but because I could kinda... sense people's intentions. The good mood and bein able to sense things just kept gettin stronger and stronger until I was pretty much unable to feel anything but happy and could actually hear what people were thinkin sometimes. Once I guessed what was goin on, I got a bit of a better control on it. If I kept myself calm and upbeat, then the empath wouldn't make me ridiculously happy. And the telepath started only broadcastin thoughts to me when it thought I got, like, sudden spikes of adrenaline, cuz that's when I'd most likely be in danger. I think that's how it goes, but I guess we can't be sure."

Silence fell over the room like a heavy blanket, only the sound of the brush gliding through Sam's hair to break the eerie spell. "This is unreal," Sam insisted softly.

"Says the psychic half of an undead demon-huntin dream team," Gus quipped evenly. After a brief beat, she added, "I wonder which is which. Which baby has which power, I mean. It'll be neat to find out."

Considering the choice between freaking out (and possibly having his niece or nephew put the psychic whammy on him yet again) or remaining calm about the whole situation, Sam opted to remain calm. And to throw out yet another subject change, to give himself a few minutes to absorb everything. "So you're naming them Samuella and Dominick, huh?" he questioned, "What made you pick those?"

"Dominick was my daddy's name," Gus replied, a smile evident in her deep voice, "Samuella was cuz I figured Dean would want a girl named after you, but _Samantha_'s kinda ugly. I mean, what kinda little girl name has _man_ in it? I like Samuella a lot better. It's pretty. I'm surprised it ain't more popular, what with that whole ridiculous _Isabella_, _Anabella_, _whatever-bella_ trend goin on..." She set down the brush and reported, "There, all done."

Sam leaned a little and caught his reflection in the window: wide blue eyes and perfect gold curls and pale, pretty cheeks. The whole effect was still extremely disconcerting.

He looked away quickly, standing with Gus's help and frowning. "Why didn't you want me to tell Dean?" he asked.

Rolling her eyes, Gus countered, "You might've noticed that he ain't entirely on board with this particular brand of freaky shit, let alone havin it run in his family. He doesn't need to be beatin himself up or worryin anymore than he already is."

Sam thought that it was a nice thing Gus was trying to do for his brother, that it was nice of her to be so concerned about his feelings. But Sam also thought it was strange. Like, very strange. Especially because she generally seemed to enjoy tormenting the man (not that it took her much effort).

Before Sam could wonder anymore about the odd behavior, he saw Gus tucking her bangs back with a pair of silvery barrettes, clicking them into place and smiling proudly.

Sam decided his best course of action was to ignore the way Gus chose to adorn her current body; it was his fault she was in it, after all, and starting a fight wasn't going to help anything. (He just hoped that he felt the same way once Dean saw...)

"C'mon," she laughed, pulling Sam up from the bed and heading for the door, "Bobby's probably done with those pancakes by now. He was so sweet to buy organic for me. But don't go piggin out, ok? Think of my figure, and if you're good, maybe I'll show you some more little _magic tricks _later on."

Sighing heavily, Sam just allowed himself to be dragged back downstairs.

xxXxx

Like morphine, pregnancy made Sam kind of narcoleptic. Not as severely, of course, but with the majority of the drama dying down, the kid couldn't seem to sit anywhere for long without falling into a light slumber.

Returning from the kitchen--where Bobby was still obsessing over the spell items while Gus provided occasional snarky commentary and clumsy physical comedy--Dean wandered into the living room and found Sam stretched out across the dusty old sofa, head tipped back against the armrest and pert, goddamn _pretty _mouth hanging slack.

Dean was amused to find that there was still enough space left on the end of the sofa for him to sit comfortably just beyond Sam's feet. He laid a hand on his brother's slender, hairless calf and couldn't help a light chuckle. "Sammy," he called, squeezing gently, "Up and at em, Sleeping Beauty."

Sam blinked himself awake slowly, rubbing his bleary eyes. "Wasn' asleep," he insisted, yawning, stretching overhead and then resting both tiny hands on his bulging stomach.

Deciding to indulge himself, Dean also pressed one of his palms against the pregnant swell. He smiled when he felt the answering jumps and flutters of his kids moving around inside. He let himself just enjoy the sensation for a few long moments before remembering why he'd sought his brother out to begin with.

"Bobby wants to know where you got the crystal you used," he murmured, trying not to think of the last time he'd been with Gus, of being less than two weeks from death and finding an unlikely evening of peace in her bed. She wasn't his usual type (too skinny, too insecure, too mean), but somehow she was everything he'd needed at that moment. Afterward, he thought it might've been a mistake. Not sleeping with her in general (because that last time was hardly the first time), but sleeping with her when he was counting down days. When they both knew he wouldn't be back.

But Gus had just smiled sadly, like she knew what he was thinking. She turned over on her back and stretched, bare from head to toe, and told him that, if he met her eighth grade Gym teacher down there, to tell the old bastard that she said _told you so_. Then she got up and made eggs and spent the whole morning bitching at him for leaving his socks in the hallway.

"Dean," Sam whined, jabbing his brother in the gut with one achingly delicate toe, "Are you listening?"

Dean shook himself, reflexively answering, "Uh huh." He seized Sam's socked foot when the kid tried to jab him again, digging his thumbs into the arch and kneading firmly.

Moaning, Sammy flopped back on the couch and just about turned to goo.

With a broad smirk, Dean continued the impromptu massage and marveled down at the petite pregnant body to which the foot was attached. Not even his brother being inside it could entirely ruin the wonderful picture it painted, the promise of new life, love, family. A reason to go on.

Dean looked away as the tightness in his throat grew too much, concentrating on his task, peeling the sock off Sam's entirely unresisting form.

He froze at what he found.

"Dean?" Sam finally murmured, half asleep again and wriggling his tiny toes, "Why'd you stop?"

"GUS!" Dean shouted, carefully inspecting the thin black markings inscribed on the arches of both Sam's feet.

"What?" the grouchy former-beauty queen responded as she sauntered over with a ridiculous, swishy sashay.

Not taking his eyes off the symbols, Dean demanded, "What the hell is this?"

Gus leaned down and over his shoulder, laughing, "I'm a grown woman- well, I _used to be_ a grown woman, and I'm allowed to have tattoos if I want em."

"These are _Enochian_!" Dean snapped, "You cast a spell, didn't you?"

With a bitchy eye roll, the Sasquatch replied, "Well, yeah. I was hidin from angels, so of course I used some angelic magic. I mean, you don't go after a werewolf without a silver bullet."

Sulking because he still didn't like the idea of magic (no matter how proficient and well-intentioned Gus had proven herself to be), Dean pressed, "Where did you get it?"

Gus shrugged, twirled her dark hair and chimed, "Wrote it myself. Enochian ain't that hard once you get the basics."

"You made up a spell in a language you don't speak?" Dean challenged, standing abruptly, "I can't fucking believe this! Didn't you learn anything from turning us both into little kids?! You don't screw around with stuff you don't understand!"

"Don't take that tone with me," Gus snarled, shoving him back a rough step, "I did what I had to, and I did a damn good job! I'd still be fuckin invisible if it hadn't been for your idiot brother!"

"Hey!" Sam piped up.

With a rabid glare, Gus jabbed a long finger in his face and shouted, "Zip it, tons of fun! I ain't talkin to you!"

Sam breathed in sharply, bottom lip quivering as he cowered into the couch cushions... and then grinned like an absolute moron... what?

"Leave him alone!" Dean ordered, shaking off the momentary confusion, "This might be his fault, but that doesn't give you the right to be such a raging bitch!"

"You're the one who jumped down my throat over a little ink!" Gus bellowed furiously. Her face was flushing red with anger, her dark hair escaping those ridiculous barrettes and falling into her blazing eyes. Icily, she snarled, "Knockin me up doesn't mean you can run my life! Best get that through your thick skull, or else we are gonna have some _serious_ problems!" With that, she turned on her massive heel and went stomping out into the yard, closing the front door with a _BANG_ that made the whole house shudder.

By the time Dean stopped stewing and sulking and went to the window, Gus was a speck disappearing over the snowy horizon.

xxxxxxxxxx

Hopefully no one named Samantha (or who is overly fond of the name Samantha) was offended by this episode. I can't be held responsible for the inflammatory statements made by my characters.

Anyways, as always, reviews are my crack... or my anti-drug. Whichever you prefer ;)


	13. Chasing

Part 13 - Chasing

In a rare poetic mood, Dean had once observed that Gus fought like a wild animal. Not like a wolf or lion, one of those top-of-the-food-chain predators, but something midrange. A jackal or a fox. They'll snap and snarl when confronted but, given the choice, won't take on anything bigger than themselves. However, if cornered, they'll indiscriminately rip out every throat between them and the exit.

So chasing the pissed-off witch was kind of a gamble. Dean knew that he should've probably just let her be, let her cool off before trying to talk to her again or he was just going to make the situation worse (going to get his throat (maybe metaphorically, maybe not) ripped out). Gus was quick to anger and could hold a grudge like nobody's business, but the former-beauty queen tended to get more rational if given a little time and space.

He didn't really know why he felt compelled to go after her. Maybe it was because of the plaintive, almost disappointed look Sam had given him, blue eyes wide and glassy while he rubbed his bulging stomach and scarfed jalapenos like they were candy. Maybe it was because of Bobby's cursing and blustering, his threats to call the sheriff to run down Sam's body and its current resident. Maybe it was because of the weatherman's droning on about an imminent blizzard and the fact that Gus had stormed off in just a hoodie.

Whatever the reason, Dean found himself driving up next to Gus, rolling down the window and ordering, "Get in."

She glared sideways at him, a strange mix of sulky-baby-brother and homicidal-PMS-case (homicidal-pregnancy-case, Dean corrected) as she jammed her huge hands into the pocket of her hoodie and stumbled over her over-long legs and snarled, "Blow me." During the ten or fifteen minutes between her storming out and Dean's meeting her, she'd straightened the silver barrettes in her dark, floppy hair; he noticed yet again how ridiculous she looked and how much he wanted a picture.

Dean sighed and thumped his head briefly against the supple, well-loved leather of the Impala's steering wheel. He made another attempt at persuading her, gray clouds of breath and harried words spilling into the seemingly wide space between them. "Gus," he said, "It's freezing. Get in the car." He swallowed down a sour taste in his mouth and added, "Please."

She kicked his hubcap and stalked a few steps ahead. Apparently, trying to outrun a fucking car, the maniac. (Well, not really run as much as trip along at a rate slightly exceeding five MPH, but the intent was the same.)

"Dude, c'mon," he called again, easing down on the gas and easily catching up, "We can talk about this."

"I got nothin to say to you," she responded, voice gone dangerously low and hulking shoulders hunched up around her ears.

Dean groaned again. He wasn't going to apologize. He wasn't! He hadn't done anything wrong! Gus shouldn't have been messing around with Enochian spells! And if she'd just stop being so damn stubborn, she could get back in the car and stop shivering so miserably! "Where are you even going?" the hunter demanded, "There's nothing around for miles!"

With a rumbling growl, Gus snapped, "The destination ain't half as important as gettin away from you, _HELL SPAWN_!"

Fuck. Dean was right about her fighting style: straight for the jugular.

He just hoped that he never had to experience anything more deadly than her sharp tongue. She could probably do some real damage if she ever figured out how to tap into Sam's extensive fighting skills.

A flicker of movement at the front of the car had him slamming on his brakes just in time to avoid mowing down the idiot angel who had materialized in the middle of the road. Dean cursed under his breath, leaning out the window and hollering, "Not a good time, Cas!"

Gus had stopped to stare at the heavenly messenger but likely wouldn't remain long.

Castiel's solemn, blue-eyed calm never faltered, arms hanging limply at his sides like he might've forgotten that he even had any. Slowly, he turned his head and murmured, "Hello, Augusta."

She flinched back rather violently, something suspiciously like fear flickering through her expression before it settled into a heated scowl. Her bitch-face was different than Sam's, more pinched and twisted (which was probably why her own face had developed those faint crow's feet she always complained about). "Who're you?" Gus demanded, wary even as her fists instinctively clenched, meaty and menacing.

"My name is Castiel," Cas replied, "I am an Angel of the Lord."

"Your mother must be so proud," Gus quipped. She actually winced at her own sacrilege, glaring at Dean (like it was somehow _his_ fault that she couldn't keep her big mouth shut) and snapping, "Friend of yours, Winchester? I thought you had more sense. Granted, not _much_ more, but I still can't help bein disappointed." With that, she resumed her huffy storm-away down the deserted road, her shivering much more noticeable.

If Dean had been a praying man, he might've offered up one of those _Lord, give me patience_ spiels. Instead, he cursed colorfully, threw the Impala in reverse, and navigated around the unmoving angel in the middle of the road.

"Gus!" he called, catching up quickly, "Gus! Just stop already! You're going to freeze to death!"

"It ain't that cold," she fired back, though the trembling of her massive frame and the faint flush of her cheeks and unhealthy blue of her lips had to disagree. She moved her giant hands from the hoodie pocket to beneath her armpits, seeking the probably insufficient warmth that resided there.

Castiel appeared before them once more, directly in Gus's path instead of Dean's.

"What do you know of your father?" he questioned bluntly, "Of your father's bloodline?"

Almost reeling with obvious confusion and deep hatred of confusion, Gus countered, "What the fuck does that matter?! Get the hell away from me, you divine lap dog!" She skirted around Cas like he was radioactive (which he very well might've been; who knew?).

Dean let her have a bit of space while he questioned the angel's sudden interest in Gus's parentage. He asked, "What's going on, Cas?"

The angel's eyes were steady and calculating as he watched the witch retreat. "The garrison that's after her," he said, "It's not my garrison, but I've kept an eye on their activity because of Augusta's connection to you. With this latest disappearance, my brothers are frustrated, and they've started to talk. They don't understand how she got away, why they can't find her. You and Sam are one thing. However, natural power like hers is not only rare, but, to anyone who knows how to look, it's obvious. She should be a beacon to follow, and instead she's practically invisible."

"She cast some Enochian spell," Dean admitted, hoping that he was doing the right thing by telling, "There're tattoos on her feet. Something she made up herself. Maybe that's doing it."

With a somber nod, Castiel agreed, "Perhaps. I will inspect the tattoos and tell you of my findings."

Dean remained a bit suspicious, prompting, "Were there any other theories from the holy peanut gallery?"

"Some," Castiel answered simply.

After a longer-than-comfortable pause, Dean inquired, "Anything we should worry about on this end?"

"I don't know for sure," the angel said. He tore his gaze away from Gus's retreating form before asking, "Do you have information on her father's bloodline?"

Despite the slightly odd phrasing, Dean was able to answer, "Her dad's name was Dominick Vaughn. He died when she was around seven or eight. That's all I got."

With a brief nod, the angel was gone.

And Dean still had a half-frozen beauty queen to catch.

xxXxx

Sam frowned down at the white crystal and, in answer to Bobby's inquiries about its origins, declared, "The trunk. We've had a couple rolling around for years. They're just regular quartz, and I just grabbed one randomly."

Sighing, carefully turning the crystal over in his gloved hands, Bobby reported, "I was afraid of that." He held it up to the window and instructed, "Take a look."

Sam squinted into the milky depths of the pendant, frowning at what he saw. "Some kinda sigil?" he observed warily, just barely able to make out the blurry but undeniable shape as the light poured through around it.

"That'd be my guess," the old mechanic grunted, "Can't make it out though. You don't remember where you boys got the crystal from?"

Kneading his temples, Sam thought hard and sighed, "I have no idea. They've pretty much always been there. We've only used em maybe twice before."

"Not this one you didn't," Bobby announced. He threw the crystal down in disgust before adding, "I'd talk to your pal Ruby if I was you. Gotta be a heavy-duty hex on this thing for it to do what it did."

Sam groaned. Which turned into a sharp hiss of pain as one of the creatures swimming around in his gut chose that moment to go all Rocky-in-the-meat-freezer on his left kidney.

Instantly concerned, Bobby demanded, "What is it? What's wrong?" He gave Sam's willowy shoulders a nervous squeeze.

"Nothing, I think," the disembodied hunter replied, slightly breathless, "They're just moving around."

Bobby chuckled fondly.

And then the doorbell rang.

"You have a doorbell?" Sam muttered, thoroughly confused.

"Nobody's used it in years," Bobby replied, frowning, immediately fetching a shotgun before cautiously creeping toward the front door. "I usually hear people comin a mile off," he reported, "Greet em outside if I don't recognize the engine or footsteps..." He peered through the peephole and seemed to relax, rolling his eyes and announcing, "It's Castiel."

Sam arched a slim eyebrow, rubbing his belly and wondering, "Since when does he use doorbells?"

"Hell if I know," Bobby grunted, "Maybe he finally picked up a copy of _Human Etiquette for Dummies_." The old mechanic opened the door and gestured the angel inside.

"Sam," Castiel greeted, blue-eyed and somber as ever, "I need to see your feet... please."

xxXxx

By the time Dean got to the bar, he was past livid. And fucking _freezing_.

But that was to be expected after having been trapped inside his own damn car for _three hours_. The snow had started halfway through the first, and, by the time whatever spell or hex Gus had used to shut down the Impala (not to mention his cell phone) wore off, the vehicle had needed to be dug out.

He was going to kill Gus. Seriously. As soon as he could figure out a way to do it without killing Sam's body in the process.

"You whammied my car," the furious hunter hissed, throwing himself down on the other side of the booth in the back corner of the roadside dive. He glared across the sticky tabletop.

Shrugging, still shivering a little, Gus muttered, "Just locked it up for awhile." At Dean's continuing glower, she added, "Don't be so damn sensitive. It was totally harmless. And easy. I think the psychic mojo in Sam's body must amplify the witchy mojo in my soul."

"Great," Dean complained. It wasn't bad enough he couldn't get Sam to stop playing around with his powers, now Gus was abusing them to.

"You were bein a dick," she said, snagging a fry out of the half-empty basket set between them, crunching it daintily between her pearly front teeth.

With a deep sigh, Dean decided on a different, far chick-flickier plan of attack. "You wanna tell me what's really bothering you now?" he offered, quite gallantly really. Only the best for his baby-mama.

Gus glanced at him over the top of a steaming coffee mug, slurped and smiled, coyly licked a stray drop off her top lip. Laughing, she replied, "For a man who won't share any feelins deeper than _hungry_ and _horny_, you got a lot of nerve expectin me to spill my guts at the first sign of interest."

"So, what?" Dean challenged, bristling, "You gotta make me work for it?"

"Somethin like that," Gus said with a soft, entirely unconvincing smirk.

Deciding on yet another tactic, Dean sighed heavily and threw out a fake smile of his own. "You learned that locking-up-a-car thing specially for me, didn't you?" he challenged.

That time, he got a genuine grin for his trouble, a wicked laugh. "Never got a chance to use it before you died," Gus confirmed. Her expression faltered. And then she was staring down into her coffee and inquiring, "You think our kids'll be bowlegged?"

Dean almost got whiplash from the speed of the subject change. "No," he said, squirming uncomfortably, "I, uh... a doctor told me once that my case probably wasn't genetic."

"Oh ya?" Gus hummed, interested but keeping her focus in the swirling surface of her coffee.

Again, Dean sighed. He hated admitting what had happened; Sam didn't even know. "Vitamin D deficiency in early childhood," he murmured, "Dad was... after Mom died, he was overwhelmed. We were moving all the time. I guess I just didn't get enough healthy food for those first few years on the road."

"And Sam had you takin care of him," Gus snickered, "So of course he went all human-giraffe hybrid."

Ya. Well. Dean was still kind of absurdly proud of that. Even if it did irk him that his little brother was so much bigger than he was.

He stared across at Gus as she ate another fry in teeny tiny bites, Dean marveling once again at the depths of the woman's insanity. He couldn't even appreciate what was really wrong with Gus, just that she definitely wasn't right.

She bit her plump bottom lip and slowly opened her mouth, hopefully about to confide something of use-

"Hey!" a bright voice called, gathering the attention of pretty much everyone in the bar. Deputy Curtis Lamb came striding toward them, just as big and dopey and ginger as Dean remembered (though the scruffy beard-moustache combination on his thick jaw was new, the police-issue parka seasonal). "Thought I recognized that car out front," he declared warmly, leaning across the booth to shake Dean's hand, giving Gus's back a firm slap as he slid onto the bench beside her, "How ya'll doin?"

That was when the deputy seemed to notice the barrettes in Gus's hair. With a quizzical, half-uncomfortable chuckle, Curtis inquired, "Lose a bet or somethin?"

Dean closed his eyes and sighed.

xxxxxxxxxx

Sorry for the delay. The real world has been kicking my ass lately.

Anyways, reviews are still awesome ;)


	14. Crashing

Part 14 - Crashing

Life as a pregnant woman, quite frankly, _sucked_. When Sam wasn't being pummeled from the inside out, he was having to waddle around feeling like a blimp, sore all over and pretty much always an empty jar of jalapenos away from bursting into tears, trying desperately to keep calm so that his niece and nephew wouldn't feel the need to whammy him into cheerfulness and hearing voices.

Bobby treated him like glass. Dean kept begging for permission to rub his belly, which was uncomfortable but wouldn't have even been that bad if not for the dopey, love-struck expressions Sam had to endure. A man should _never_ have to tolerate those kinds of looks from his own brother...

And as if all that weren't enough, in the barely twenty-four hours since Curtis and Darla Lee had found out about his Condition, they'd stopped by at least a half dozen times each to gawk at the freak show he'd become.

Well, ok, maybe that wasn't completely fair; they were his friends and seemed genuinely concerned. Curtis brought pies and well-wishes from his wife, and Darla Lee had been especially kind and matronly telling wistful tales of her experiences with her own grown son. But, still, they stared at him like they were trying to see past the bloated midget exterior to the hunt-hardened Sasquatch within, and Sam was never comfortable in those moments. Not that he'd found much comfort at all since waking up in that bathtub...

Then there was Gus, who was absolutely determined to drive them all insane. Dean especially.

"Where is that fucking bitch?" Sam's brother snarled, stomping inside with his whole head dripping dirty motor oil.

Sam snickered into a battered copy of _What to Expect When You're Expecting_ and declared, "I haven't seen her... what happened to you?"

Dean scrubbed a hand through the gooey, greasy mess on his face and snarled, "We were in the garage. I was under the car, and we were just... we were _talking_! I _thought _we were getting along! I don't know what the fuck I said to piss her off this time, and then all of a sudden she calls me a prick, taps the hood, the oil plug goes flying, and-" he gestured somewhat hysterically at his face, "This! It's bad enough she's even doing magic, but why the fuck does she have to keep doing it on my car?"

Sam would've laughed again except for the fact that his brother looked very close to completely losing his shit. "Cut her some slack, man," the disembodied hunter somberly advised, "The situation isn't easy for any of us, and you know Gus is... high strung."

"_High strung_," Dean spat, "Right. Just cuz you're getting all cozy in her skin doesn't mean you need to make excuses for her." Stomping off toward the bathroom, he bellowed, "Do me a favor! Try to remember what it feels like to have testicles!"

The _SLAM_ of the door cut off any attempted retort.

Sighing heavily, Sam sunk further down into the squashy couch cushions and rubbed his stomach. "Sorry, guys," he cooed fondly to the wriggling creatures inside, "You have crazy people for parents. Yes, you do. _Yes, you do_."

xxXxx

After he scoured the oil off his skin and out of his hair, Dean went after the psycho responsible, searching the house from top to bottom and then stalking out into the yard. "Gus!" he called, "Where are you?"

Dean received no answer but only had to wander around for a few minutes before he finally found who he was looking for.

Gus was kneeling in the snow a ways out into the scrap yard, head down and long arms wrapped around her stomach.

At first, Dean just figured she was doing yoga again. Then he heard her pained whimpers, spotted the puddle of puke not quite six feet away, and he immediately sprinted to her side. "What is it?" the hunter demanded, pawing at her hot, clammy forehead, "What's wrong?"

Groaning weakly, squeezing her eyes shut, Gus stammered, "I-I don't know. I got real dizzy after our fight, a-and I felt sick. Everythin started hurtin, and I-I can't stop shakin..." Her face was deathly pale except for the blazing red in her cheeks.

Dean rubbed her broad, trembling back and did his best to remain calm. "Don't worry," he soothed, "You probably just caught the flu or something after stomping around in the snow."

_Or your head injury was more severe than we figured_, Dean thought to himself in a bit of a panic, _Or your soul is rejecting Sam's body, or Sam's body is rejecting your soul, or a million other Very Bad Things I can't even guess at_.

"C'mon," Dean said, struggling to pull the shuddering mass upright, "Let's go inside, ok? You'll feel better once you're lying down."

Dean dragged her back to the house, and Gus didn't make even a single joke about his trying to get her into bed.

xxXxx

"Don't go near her," Dean warned, blocking the bedroom doorway with his body. He scowled at Sam and declared, "If she is just sick, you could get sick, and that could hurt my kids."

Even though he knew his brother was absolutely right, Sam huffed and complained, "It's my body, and I think I'm the best person to judge what's wrong with it. I'll just poke my head in."

Expression already fuck-with-me-and-die stubborn, Dean snapped, "No way. You're gonna get back on the couch and stay there while I call Norah." He cut off an attempted rebuttal with a sharp, "Don't make me carry you."

Sam definitely wasn't willing to suffer that particular indignity, so, after brief stops in the bathroom and kitchen, he settled himself in the living room once more. He balanced his jalapeno sundae on his bulbous stomach and listened intently to the one-sided conversation taking place on the upstairs landing; he tried not to brood too much about being ordered around.

He fiddled with his phone, once again texting Ruby and receiving no answer. Having to wait a day or two for a reply from the demon wasn't particularly unusual, but, during that particular chapter in his life, it was damned inconvenient. They were still sticking with Bobby's theory about the swap: that the crystal was responsible (since Castiel had deemed the Enochian tattoos to be relatively harmless at everything but hiding the pregnant body from view). Bobby had been researching his ass off, but he hadn't yet identified the item or the faint sigil that could be seen inside it. If the crystal had come from Ruby, she might very well be the only person (being? entity? creature? heartless spawn of the blackest abyss?) who could tell them what they needed to know to reverse the damage.

"She's burning up," Dean's voice filtered down the stairs as he spoke with the doctor, "Shaking. I don't know what else to do for her, and we gotta know if it's related to the swap."

He was silent for a few moments, stairs creaking as he paced. Finally, he murmured, "Alright. Thanks, Norah. We owe you one." He listened and then laughed, adding, "Ok, I guess we owe you two. I'll tell him. See you soon... Sammy!"

"What?" Sam muttered around a deliciously spicy-sweet mouthful of ice cream.

"Norah's coming by," Dean announced, "She's gonna take a look at Gus and then at you afterward."

"I'm fine," Sam insisted, frankly fucking _mortified_.

He could hear Dean roll his eyes as he grumbled, "It's just a checkup, Sammy. Be a big girl, and I'll make sure you get a lollipop at the end."

Sam replied, "Jerk!"

xxXxx

Glassy-eyed and still trembling, Gus stared up at Dean and slurred, "What happened to your face?"

"What?" Dean responded, doing a cursory check and finding nothing out of place, finding everything stunning as always (oh yeah).

Gus blinked slowly and then started to cry in hushed, pitiful whimpers. "You said you weren't," she sobbed, kicking and pawing at the covers, "You said you weren't!"

Confused as fuck and more than a little worried, Dean did his best to restrain the delirious giraffe, soothing, "Hey. Hey, hey, hey! C'mon, Gus. It's me. It's Dean. Relax, ok?"

She didn't relax but didn't have the strength to get anywhere, either. Instead, she just blubbered something about black-eyed bastards and where was her baby, what did he do with her baby.

Dean tried not to listen, tried to keep her temperature down. He'd called Bobby shortly after Norah, and hopefully the old mechanic would arrive back from his tow with some answers. Or at least a few encouraging theories.

"Dean?"

Sammy was leaning around the doorway, hands balanced protectively on the swell of his belly and face set firmly into an easily recognizable precursor to a total bitch-fit, a you-can't-tell-me-what-to-do-so-don't-even-try-or-I'll-make-your-life-miserable look.

Joy.

Sighing heavily, Dean decided that he didn't have time for a fight and just questioned, "What?"

"Ruby finally got in touch," Sammy declared, craning his slender neck trying to get a better look inside the room, "She said she's nearby and that she'll head over as soon as possible. Hopefully within the day."

"Awesome," Dean replied, unable to conjure much enthusiasm about the black-eyed bitch.

_Black-eyed bastard_...

"I think Gus thinks I'm a demon again," the hunter announced with a frown, "She must be hallucinating."

Always fun.

"Must be," Sam agreed. He did the Weeble wobble for a few moments and then stated, "She seemed fine not too long ago. How'd she get so bad so fast?"

"You tell me, Buttercup," Dean grumbled. He drew a hand through his hair, easily pinning Gus down with the other when she made another clumsy attempt at flight. "Were you feeling sick or anything before this all happened?" he questioned, "Do you feel sick now?"

Sam shook his head, blonde curls bouncing absurdly. "Nothing outside the usual for either situation," he replied. After a brief moment of consideration, he inquired, "You remember last night when she made your beer foam up?"

Narrowing his eyes, Dean snarled, "Vividly."

_Foam up_ was a generous description; the psychotic witch created a Budweiser geyser in his hand with (she claimed) nothing but a spiteful thought.

"Well," said Sam, "Afterward, I noticed that she was kinda squinting a little. Like I do when I get a headache. She said she was ok though."

"Fuck, Sammy," Dean complained, "These are things I need to know about when they happen!" He took a deep breath before continuing, "Both times were after one of her _magic tricks_, right? And she said that your body makes her powers easier to use. Stronger. But what if she's just been burning them out? Like, uh, overloading a computer and making it crash."

A thought flickered across Sammy's face, and, judging by how quickly he hid the expression, it wasn't a good one.

"What?" Dean demanded.

"Nothing," Sam claimed with another shake of his bouncy curls.

Dean growled, "We're not playing this game, Sam. If you have a theory, I want to hear it."

"I don't!" the very pregnant hunter claimed, already backing away, "I'm just worried about her."

"Uh huh," said Dean.

By the time he was through rolling his eyes, Sam was gone.

xxXxx

Dean got the metaphor wrong: Gus's condition wasn't like overloading and crashing a computer; it was more like drag-racing with jet fuel in a regular engine, burning through the gas double fast and crashing double hard. Hitting the wall doing 180.

Or at least that was Sam's theory. He cursed softly to himself as he rifled through his belongings, digging out a very well-hidden flask of demon blood and already trying to figure out how to dose his body with it without letting Dean or Gus know. He told himself he should've thought something like this would happen right from the start; demon blood had given his own powers such a jump start, and there was no reason that it wouldn't do the same for Gus's while she was inhabiting him. All those magic tricks should've been a big hint, especially the ones she claimed were unintentional.

And the few times Sam had stopped drinking had given him similar withdrawal symptoms to what Gus was experiencing: nausea and body aches and strangely vivid nightmares. And that was months ago, before he had a half-pint (or more) a day habit. The reaction was likely going to be a lot worse now.

Well, obviously.

"Shit," he swore, wincing and then grinning as one of the creatures whammied him hard. Frigging little supernatural anti-depressant. Sam wasn't supposed to feel good about what he'd done to Gus. And he certainly wasn't supposed to find himself on the brink of giggling. Again.

He heard a car approaching and, since it wasn't Bobby's tow truck, figured it was Norah's little sedan. He also heard his brother going to meet her, and Sam figured it might be his only chance.

Smothering his own snickers with a tiny hand over his mouth, the hunter slipped from one bedroom into the other. Gus was in his usual bed (because the mattress was longer), thrashing and moaning, eyes flickering but not really seeing as Sam approached.

Sam wasted no time pouring what was left of the sticky liquid in his flask into her mouth.

Sputtering and then swallowing reflexively, Gus gradually calmed, laid still long enough for Sam to stash the flask away in his cleavage (which was horrifying yet convenient).

Gus opened her eyes and sat up, peering around blearily and then demanding, "What the hell's goin on?"

"How do you feel?" Sam asked, reaching forward to feel his own forehead and getting a little freaked out by being able to do so. It was just... trippy...

"Like crap," Gus replied, smacking her lips and grimacing unattractively, "Why do I taste pennies?"

Sam sat down on the edge of the bed to give his ankles and back a break, rubbing his big belly and stating, "You collapsed. And we think you were hallucinating."

With a growl, Gus let herself flop down again. "Awesome," she muttered. She curled up on her side, facing away from Sam and toward the wall.

He was kind of amazed at how tiny she made herself seem, long legs and arms in tight.

"Leave me alone," Gus ordered.

Sam recognized the tiny hitch in his own rightful voice: she was crying. He reached out to comfort her, rubbing her broad, shaking back.

_Fucking hate this_, he heard, high and clear, _Why do I always gotta be the star of the freak show?_

"You're not," Sam soothed, only realizing he'd read Gus's mind when she sat up just far enough to glare at him over her shoulder.

"I told you to _leave me alone_!" she bellowed, teary but clearly irate.

_This is all your fault!_

Sam frowned and sadly responded, "I'm sorry. I just-"

The kid whammied him again, and Sam had a hard time suppressing an inappropriate grin.

"I ain't interested in your excuses!" Gus snarled, "Go be humungous somewhere else!"

_God, I really do look like a blimp_...

There was something very sad about hearing Gus mock her rightful body.

"Sammy," Dean scolded as he and Norah arrived abruptly in the doorway.

It was official: no one wanted Sam in the room.

"Fine," he moped, struggling to his swollen feet and waddling back downstairs to the couch.

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Once again, I apologize for the delay. Real life is still kicking my ass, but I've been trying to get caught up on my fanfic responsibilities today. Anyways, reviews are still love :)


	15. Uniting

Part 15 - Uniting

Dean let Curtis in, shook the deputy's meaty paw and reported, "Norah's still giving Sam the once-over, but she said she'd be done pretty soon."

"No rush," Curtis answered, jiggling the strawberry blonde toddler attached to his right calf. "Clara," he cooed mushily, "You gonna say hi to Uncle Dean?"

Peering up from through a curtain of messy fringe, the girl flashed a sweet, dimpled smile and chirped, "Hi, Uncle Dean!"

"Hey, Clara," Dean laughed. He scooped her up and threw her into the air just to hear her delighted squeal, pressing a playful kiss to her neck. She was barely two-years-old and still always smelled like baby shampoo, fresh and clean and innocent.

And Dean was going to have two of those little creatures of his very own very soon.

The concept was absurd: Dean Winchester was _not_ father material.

"How's Gus?" Curtis inquired.

Swallowing down his momentary panic, Dean declared, "She, uh, she seems fine now. We don't really know what was wrong to begin with, so Norah's got her resting."

"Weird," said Curtis.

Dean puttered around the kitchen for beer and snacks while he listened to Clara babble in his arms, about her mommy and her daddy and their neighbor's new puppy, about all this... boring, normal stuff. And Dean had to wonder whether his own kids would ever be so normal, if it would even be possible.

He really had a one-track mind lately.

Eventually, Norah and Sam wandered in, the doctor kissing her husband and her daughter while the hunter, still blushing beet red, waddled toward and flopped into a chair.

Clara squirmed until Dean put her down, going straight for Sam and peering up at him with big blue eyes. "Hi," she chirped, "Are you my Auntie Gus?"

Sam glanced desperately all over the room before finally smiling down at the girl, answering, "Um... ya, I guess I am. "

Beaming, Clara pointed at Sam's huge belly and proclaimed, "Then that's my cousin, right?"

"Cousins," Sam corrected, "They're twins."

Dean kneeled down beside the little girl, guiding her hand onto the bulge as he declared, "Their names are Dominick and Samuella."

Clara tugged her hand back, frowning up at Dean and indignantly crowing, "They kicked me! That's not nice!"

"That's just how they say hi, baby girl," Curtis laughed.

The toddler continued to frown thoughtfully, pouting, "Still not nice."

Sam's cell buzzed on the table, and he read the text quickly. Turning to his brother, he reported, "It's Ruby. She's on her way."

"Great," grumbled Dean. Nodding toward the door, he told Curtis, "You gotta get the kid outta here."

Probably remembering that Ruby was a demon, Curtis just gave a wide-eyed nod, scooped up his daughter and shuffled her and his wife out the front door.

Dean threw himself down into the chair beside Sam, clearly pissed as he gave a heavy sigh. "The hell-bitch better have something," he warned, "Bobby's turning up squat."

"Ya," Sam agreed, gaze far off as he rubbed his belly.

xxXxx

Ruby took one look at him and burst into laughter, doubling over and holding her sides as she repeatedly tried and failed to gasp out a coherent taunt.

Sulking, Sam insisted, "Just tell us about the crystal! Tell us how to reverse it!"

She swiped at her watering eyes and swept her dark hair away from her sweaty forehead, finally managing to stand up straight. "You look _ridiculous_," she cackled, "I can't believe... I never thought... it's not even supposed to do this!"

"What is it supposed to do?" Dean demanded, keeping himself firmly between the demon and his pregnant brother. It might've been an unintentional gesture except for the fact that it clearly wasn't. Dean had a problem with Ruby being around Sam; having the demon be around Sam while Sam was Gus and carrying Dean's twins was liable to give the hunter a massive coronary.

Ruby got through a few more breathless giggles, brushing away a few more helpless tears and explaining, "It's... it's sort of a hex. An ancient one. It can remove and store a soul. I was going to use it to make an empty meat suit for myself, but then I found this one and didn't need to. It must've fallen out of my bag, and I just didn't miss it."

Sam glared. It was one of the most ridiculous things he'd ever heard and yet still strangely plausible. They were Winchesters, after all, and that time certainly wasn't the first time they'd been fucked in the ass by pure happenstance.

"You used it for _scrying_?" Ruby laughed, "That's like... like using a lightsaber to shave! You're lucky all it did was swap your souls! You could both be dead or worse right now! Probably would be, too, if you and Gus weren't packing such high-class mojo!"

"How do we fix this?" Dean growled.

With a heavy sigh, Ruby answered, "The other half of the crystal. Uniting the two pieces should reverse everything. But it's not gonna be easy to find. I'll have to talk to some contacts and see if it's even on the grid."

"I am not giving birth to my own niece and nephew," Sam insisted, getting a little bit hysterical again. The thought of going through labor pushed him closer and closer to the edge every time he had it.

Nodding, the demon girl agreed, "I'll do my best, Sam. You know that."

As she was leaving, Dean called, "Ruby."

She stopped with one hand on the door, dark gaze thrown carelessly over a slender shoulder.

"Keep your toys out of my trunk," Dean threatened.

xxXxx

With nothing left to do but wait, with yet another blizzard threatening and the fetuses practicing their Chuck Norris impressions in his gut, Sam was pretty much still stuck on the couch.

Dean popped in a movie, and they both sat and watched.

At some point, Sam fell asleep and woke to find his brother's head on his stomach, to find Dean whispering softly into his navel. Sam couldn't quite make out the words, but they sounded quite gentle and loving.

Dean was going to be a great father.

Sam might've been, too. Once upon a time. But that really wasn't in the cards anymore.

Still, he was going to be the world's best uncle. If he managed to live through averting the apocalypse...

Not wanting to embarrass his brother, Sam played possum for a few more minutes but gradually became aware of a pressing need gathering in his bladder region. He squirmed a bit, and Dean retreated in an instant.

"Sammy?" he asked, hovering as Sam opened his eyes, "You alright?"

"Bathroom," Sam yawned. He graciously accepted a hand up from the couch and allowed Dean to shadow him all the way up to the door. The man was a serious mother hen.

Dean was in exactly the same spot when Sam emerged, but he definitely hadn't sat out there the whole time. For one, his facial expression had changed from dopey and serene to an intimidating, worrisome mix of irate and horrified. And he had a piece of paper in his hand. Wordlessly, Dean handed it over.

There were only five words printed neatly across the center:

_The boy for the girl._

"I think you were just kidnapped," Dean announced half-hysterically.

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Sorry for the delay, kids. I've been rather uninspired where this story is concerned, but hopefully I've moved past that and will have more soon. Reviews, as always, are ten kinds of awesome :)


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